


Oh Glory

by alivingfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2016 Summer Olympics, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Swimming, Explicit Sexual Content, Gymnastics, M/M, Praise Kink, Swimming, mentions of past zouis, mentions of recreational drinking, slight mentions of homophobia typical in sports environments, sorry @ anyone who competes in the sports i probably mangled, tiny bit of bondage, unrelated: improper use of olympic medals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Tomlinson looks Liam over, tilting his head. “Are you a swimmer as well?”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Yeah,” Liam says, a little cautiously. Harry wonders if it’s Tomlinson’s fame or the unimpressed eyebrow that’s making Liam wary. “Distance, I’m doing the 1500m. Harry here’s a sprinter.”</i></p><p>  <i>“Ah,” says Tomlinson, turning his glinting eyes back to Harry. “So you’re not an endurance man.” A beat passes, and his grin grows, wide and filthy. "Shame."</i></p><p>Harry Styles is Team Great Britain's newest swimmer, and has spent his whole life training for this moment, a chance at the gold medal in the Rio 2016 Olympics. All his training, hard work, and dedication to no distractions is tested when he's assigned to the same Rio apartment as Louis Tomlinson, British gymnast and Harry's childhood crush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Glory

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Oh Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003677) by [SanaW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanaW/pseuds/SanaW)



> hello and welcome to rachel writes a full fic in a week where she promised to finish an entirely different fic 
> 
> a quick couple of notes -  
> \- any inaccuracies when it comes to descriptions of swimming/gymnastics/athlete training/the olympics in general are my fault and are the result of me saying "research? who needs it?" while tearing my hair out.  
> \- i also mangled the order and pacing of olympic events a bit to match my story. in reality, harry and louis and niall would probably be participating in their own events on the same days, but that's less fun so i spread it out.
> 
> [now in italian!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8003677)

_Saturday_

Harry steps off the bus and a wave of humidity hits him like a train; no, worse, like a _wet_ train, or maybe like a metric ton of sopping wet blankets dipped in coconut scented suntan oil. Shimmering heat rises off the concrete in front of him; above him stands the Olympics Aquatics Stadium, a monolith of glass and blue, reflecting so brightly that Harry has to squint at his destiny rather than staring it right in the face.

Rio.

Harry’s been working towards this moment since he was old enough to understand what a gold medal even was. Nothing will ruin the next two weeks for him; he’s in paradise doing what he does best, and the whole world is gold-tinted for him.

Except, well.

The hastily constructed apartment Harry left his things in this morning was only half-finished and had no air con, his mum keeps texting him about making sure to only drink bottled water so he doesn’t get any diseases, and Gemma...

Gemma knows the worst thing for Harry right now would be for him to get distracted. She, however, does not seem to care, and his phone continues to buzz insistently against his thigh. Someone bumps into Harry’s back and he apologises, stepping out of the way so others can dismount the bus and yanking his phone out of his pocket.

 _Gemma: this guy????_  
_Gemma: [picture attached]_  
_Gemma: this is your flatmate?????_  
_Gemma: you’re in the short term party capital of the world and your roommate is THIS GUY???_  
_Gemma: [picture attached]_  
_Gemma: [picture attached]_  
_Gemma: [picture attached]_  
_Gemma: why couldn’t you be the smart one and i could be the athletic one_  
_Gemma: i’ll trade you!! you finish my doctorate and i’ll swim for you  
Gemma: please? _

Harry taps his screen so hard his finger hurts, holding the phone to his ear and grinding his teeth together.

“Baby bro!” Gemma says cheerfully, and Harry’s scowl grows. He trudges after his coach, who’s sending him unimpressed looks as they enter the stadium for the first time ever.

“Gemma. I have three hours of pool time booked and I cannot spend them texting you back.”

“Oh, please,” Gemma says, and Harry can imagine her waving her hand airily, batting his complaints out of the air. She’s probably poolside too, her and Mum booked at a hotel on the beach near the Olympic Village, though she’s probably drinking something frosty and filled with tequila while Harry’s about to swim for two hours and then suffocate under a mountain of protein powder. “You could swim a couple dozen miles with me on speakerphone narrating the whole thing and still be fine. You don’t _get_ distracted.”

“I haven’t before, that doesn’t mean I want to try,” Harry sighs. He’s directed to a dressing room and finds an empty bench, setting his duffle bag down and slowly unpacking his practice jammers and goggles, his cap, his headphones. Gemma’s going on about the view from their room—”Sand for _miles,_ Hazza, it’s a dream”—when Harry suddenly realises someone is standing very, very close to his elbow.

“Er, Gem, I gotta call you back,” he says, pretending everything is normal and not that someone shirtless is standing centimetres from him in an otherwise empty room.

“You’re not getting away that easy,” Gemma says sharply. “C’mon, H, spare no details! What’s he like? Is he tiny? I bet he’s tiny. And his tattoos! Are they real? And his hair, how could I forget the hair? Quiff or fringe? What about-”

“Gems,” Harry says desperately. “I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later.”

“I expect at least an hour on this topic tonight!” Gemma says, and then _she_ hangs up on _him_ like _he_ was the problem, and Harry would be annoyed at that but now he’s got no one to distract from the person nearly vibrating with excitement by his shoulder.

Harry turns, and comes face to face with wide, excited brown eyes.

“Hi, Harry!” says the person, who’s still very close to Harry and now wringing his hand in excitement. “Can you believe it—Rio! It’s so beautiful here, and so warm! Have you been to the beaches yet? Probably not, you probably just got here, right? Me too! Where are you staying? Oh, duh, the Olympic Village, I knew that! Who’re your roommates? Are you-”

For the second time in two minutes, Harry interrupts a monologue.

“Hello,” he says slowly, trying to judge if he’s supposed to know this face or not. He’s been practicing with Team GB for months now, but he supposes this guy could have a familiar accent and _not_ be from England. Or maybe he’s a towel boy, or an assistant. Unlikely, though.

“Hi!” the guy says again. Harry’s not sure he’s ever had a first meeting with someone so over-the-top cheerful. “Sorry, I’m being rude. I’m Liam Payne! I’m a team alternate doing the 1500 metre, since Greg James broke his leg.”

“Greg broke his leg?” Harry asks, stunned. He’d seen Greg not that long ago, and was perfectly fine. Definitely no broken bones at that point, and had spent the whole time asking Harry about his plans for the weeks they’d spend in Rio.

“Yeah,” Liam says, the happiness dropping from his face. Harry’s sure Liam has nothing to do with Greg’s broken leg, but he’s acting like he was the one who set out a banana peel for Greg to slip on. Then the smile reappears, so fast it gives Harry a little bit of whiplash. “I’m his alternate and was able to make it to the trials, so I’m on the team! Isn’t it amazing? Not for Greg though.”

“Hello,” Harry repeats again. “I’m Harry Styles.”

“Oh, I know that,” Liam reassures him. “I’ve been to all the team practices for the last two months.” He claps his hand over his mouth like he just announced international secrets. “Wow, sorry. That’s probably creepy.”

Harry grins despite himself. He’s not supposed to get distracted (his phone buzzes again in his pocket, has Gemma not got anything better to do?) but this is a teammate: he’s supposed to get along with his teammates, right? Surely _not_ being friendly with this puppy in human form would cause them to have an antagonistic relationship, and _that_ would be more distracting than anything else, right?

“Nah, you’re fine,” he says. “Ready to hit the water?”

“Oh, not yet,” Liam says, grin back in place. “I jog a little before I get in the pool, part of my routine.”

“Oh,” says Harry. Well, that’s the difference between a sprinter and a distance swimmer; still, a light jog sounds nice. Might get rid of some of the tension he’s been carrying since the plane. “Maybe I’ll join you. How long do you usually jog?”

“Under an hour. I try to do ten miles.”

“You jog ten miles to warm up?”

“Yeah,” Liam says brightly. At Harry’s baffled expression, he clarifies. “Oh, I almost made the track and field team as well.”

Harry stares at his new friend for a moment and then laughs, bending over to rest his hands on his knees, laughing so hard his ribs hurt. “Of course you did.” He claps Liam on the shoulder, who’s laughing too even if he doesn’t know why. “I’m not running ten miles, good luck with that. But catch me later and we’ll hit the gym back at the Village, I need to do some cardio before bed tonight.”

“Will do!” Liam says, and starts to back away, hands around the ends of the towel over his shoulders. “What’s your apartment number?”

“Block C, room 812.”

“Ah, cool.” Liam’s almost out of the dressing room, heading toward the gym and away from the sounds of whistles and shouts as other swimmers start their training in the pool. “Hey, who’s your roommate?”

Whoop, there it is. Harry sighs, shucks his sweats and his jacket so he’s just in his gear, the tight material like a second skin after years of training. He grabs his phone, goggles, and towel, and sends Liam a weak smile. “Louis Tomlinson.”

Liam drops the Gatorade bottle he’d been drinking from, and the hard plastic clatters on the floor. “The gymnast Louis Tomlinson? _That_ Louis Tomlinson?”

Yeah, Liam. _That_ Louis Tomlinson.

If Michael Phelps is the face of men’s swimming, and Usain Bolt is the face of track and field, and Serena Williams is the face of tennis, then Louis Tomlinson is the face, name, and most adored personality in all of men’s gymnastics.

He’d medalled in London in front of a home crowd back in 2012 on the high bar, bringing home the unexpected bronze for Great Britain and shocking the nation, most of whom weren’t aware there was even anyone _competing_ for them in that event, and were really only at the stadium to watch the women’s gymnastics trials later that night. It was a Cinderella story, if Cinderella was initially overlooked by her country in favour of shinier, prettier princesses like Tom Daley and Andy Murray who were more likely to win their events.

In the days that followed his step onto the podium and the world’s introduction to his crinkly-eyed smile, Tomlinson was on every morning show, radio programme, and newspaper front page, and billions of people the world round fell in love.

In the months and years that followed, he moved from interesting Olympics story to a household name, scandal and intrigue making him into a certified celebrity.

Harry was _obsessed_ with Tomlinson in 2012, and, if he’s being honest, in the year or so that followed, when his every move was plastered all over the media. Tomlinson was a mummy’s boy and a devoted big brother, a sweet humanitarian who spoke at multiple charity events and volunteered at gyms in London that catered to low-income children interested in gymnastics, and was just cheeky enough on Twitter to earn a headline or two every few weeks. It was the little bit of an edge that made him so interesting—he was sweet and kind and caring but when reporters asked pointed questions about his love life, or when paps got too close to his little sisters, or when a friend of his was facing harassment on Twitter, Tomlinson could be unpredictable, wild, the sort to rip a person to shreds and smile winningly all the while.

In 2014, he came out as gay and captured the attention of the world yet again, and Harry’s life got a hell of a lot harder.

Harry’s hundred metre times had been improving steadily for months, tipping from the 50 second range to under 49, and soon he wasn’t just the lanky teenager whose muscle mass couldn't keep up with his growth spurts anymore. He started climbing the ranks, first in the smaller European competitions, then in internationals. He medalled at a competition in Spain when he was twenty, and the very next day he was in talks with Team GB about setting up a more regimented training schedule and use of the national team’s facilities and staff, the Rio Games looming on his horizon. It was everything Harry had always wanted, but it came with a price; gone was his free time, his hobbies and interests outside of swimming. He had to buckle down, said his trainer, and his coaches, and his nutritionist, and the guy who handed him water bottles, and his mum, and every other guy on the team, buckle down and keep the end game in sight. No distractions.

So when a copy of ESPN Magazine with Louis Tomlinson’s face on the cover next to the blaring headline of _OUT_ was passed around the locker room one day, Harry’s heart nearly fell from his chest.

“Didja see that?” said Jamie, passing the magazine to him with a hint of disinterest. “Not that shocking, eh?”

“Hmm?” Harry said, his heart pounding in his ears. “Oh, uh. I guess.”

“I’m just saying,” said Adam, lip curled a little, “that doesn’t have to be anyone’s business but his own. He didn’t have to run to the press to talk about it.”

Jamie grunted, rubbing a towel over his shorn hair. “Between him ‘n Tom Daley, the whole world’s gonna be thinkin’ the whole Great Britain team’s a load of poofs.”

“Yeah, and you’re a big enough poof to make up for the rest of us, eh?” Adam said, snapping his towel at Jamie and elbowing Harry to join in.

“Yeah,” Harry laughed, but it was choked and hollow and if anyone was actually paying attention, they’d know he really wasn’t playing along at all. Luckily, Jamie and Adam were too busy chasing each other around the room to look at Harry, who slipped his shirt on over his water-chilled chest and went home to burrow under some blankets for a few days, refusing to think of what his teammates would say if his face was on the cover of a magazine next to the word _OUT_ , or if the guy he hooked up with in a club in Belgium a few months ago recognised him as a professional athlete and went to the press, or if Harry just snapped one day and told the lot of them that just because someone’s attracted to guys doesn’t mean they’ll be attracted to _them_ , especially not since Harry’d seen most of them naked and was wholly unimpressed.

Harry gave himself two days to wallow, then it was as though nothing happened; he picked up his training regimen and worked harder, ran faster, lifted more, ate better, drank nothing but water, stayed in the pool for one more try, one more, just one last one. But he kept a copy of the magazine with Louis Tomlinson’s coming out article under his bed, and he never really bothered to figure out why—was it motivation, to be the very best so his career wouldn’t tank off the back of his own sexuality secret? Was it fear, to remind himself that the world may be changing but the athletic community was still the same, that homophobia was alive and well and Tomlinson might have survived it, but Harry might not? Or was it just a reminder, a warning, that when your personal life is splashed all over the pages of the Daily Mail, nobody cares how good you are at flipping or running or swimming when they can talk about who you’re shagging instead?

Maybe a little of all three.

So, in 2014, Tomlinson was out and Harry was shoved further into the closet, and life went on.

Harry trained, and he got his best time down to 48 seconds, and he got a few sponsors, and then he clocked 47.89 at the world championships and his Rio dreams were looking more and more realistic. He did a few adverts, just some local ones, at first, because it was 2015 and still a good fourteen months out from buying his ticket to Brazil but he still needed cash, and then it turns out people really liked the curly-headed kid with the too-long hair and too-big feet so he booked a few more, and a few more.

In June, he qualified for the Games with a 47.87 time, and Beats gave him a pair of headphones to wear on the plane.

And, throughout that time, Harry did his best not to look for news about Louis Tomlinson. Dedication meant no distractions, being an _Olympian_ meant no distractions, and Louis Tomlinson was a distraction of the highest order. Of course, when his mum and sister talked about him, it wasn’t like he could plug his ears and try not to listen…  

So he heard about Tomlinson being seen out with a musician, Zayn Malik, the two of them falling out of clubs at all hours of the early morning, caught kissing by paps, dozens of pictures of the two of them laughing as Tomlinson flipped off the cameras that followed them, not bothered a bit. Malik’s fans searched for hidden lyrics in his songs that could be about Tomlinson and the sporting world waited impatiently for the golden boy to fall, for Tomlinson’s antics to affect his training. Tomlinson and Tom Daley were the nation’s two big LGBT athletes and were compared relentlessly, and the comparisons never came out well on Tomlinson and Malik’s side.

Still, Tomlinson continued to reign when it came to his gymnastics performances, not always leaving competitions with gold around his neck, but always charming the audience so thoroughly that it didn’t really matter either way. His scores improved and he pulled off some truly incredible feats of athleticism and somehow, despite the rainbow band he wore around his wrist, he continued to be a worldwide darling and a serious contender for some 2016 hardware.

And now they’re here, it’s 2016, and Harry has Nike paying for the jacket he wears to the training facility and Aldi paying for his meals but he still has to carry his Team GB identification around so that no one mistakes him as just a spectator. He’s got a medal to try and win and a once in a lifetime experience to have and, somewhere in the heart of Rio a few miles from this spot, he’s got a half-constructed flat with his name on one bedroom door and Louis Tomlinson’s name on the one right next to his.  

“Yeah,” Harry finally says, and Liam looks torn between excitement and trepidation just at the mention of one of the most famous athletes representing their team. “That Louis Tomlinson.”

Rio ‘16, and away they go.

◯◯◯◯◯

Despite being displaced into a foreign city surrounded by palm trees and white sands, Harry’s first day in Rio goes mostly as per usual: two hours in the pool, cooldown workout in the gym, protein-packed lunch, a nap, dry land workout, back into the pool for another couple of hours, and then dinner with the team. Liam sticks by his side and Harry introduces him around, only mangling the names of a few of the divers he’s only met once or twice. Tom Daley, who Harry knows a little from different competitions throughout the years, shakes Liam’s hand and doesn’t bat an eyelash at his overexcited questions, sending Harry a wink when he has to take Liam by the elbow to escort him away.

They have the evening to themselves and a world of possibilities in front of them, the Olympic Village packed with restaurants, clubs, shops, and the wide expanse of Rio beyond that. Some of the other guys on the team are meeting up with the volleyball team from Sweden, who apparently know a good club in the centre of Rio where Olympians drink for half price, but Liam and Harry shake them off.

“Not much of a drinker,” Harry says, which is sort of a lie since he actually loves partying but his coach and everyone who’s ever invested time and money into him don’t agree. “Not until this is over, at least.”

“I only have one kidney,” is Liam’s excuse, which is a pretty damn good one and is also a perfect reason to nudge Liam until he talks about his life until age ten being spent in and out of hospitals, and how once he was declared healthy enough to try sports he tried all of them until he found something he loved.

“Liam Payne,” Harry laughs, throwing his arm around Liam’s shoulders. “You’re a goddamn Olympic miracle.”

Liam goes red and stutters something about hard work and his cheeks are so pink Harry doesn’t know what to do with him.

When neither of them make a decision about where to go, they end up back at Harry’s temporary apartment. The bedrooms are all dark, the fencer in the first bedroom, the cyclist in the last room, and Louis Tomlinson in the room next to Harry’s all somewhere else. Harry lets out a tiny breath of relief, unreasonably nervous for his first meeting with his new flatmate for the next three weeks and glad to put it off for a little longer.

Harry lets them into his bedroom and starts to strip out of his sweats and jacket, ready to don something not embroidered with a Nike swoosh.

“So, Liam,” Harry grins, buttoning on an oversized plaid shirt. “Shall we have a night in? Low-fat, low-carb popcorn and Smart Water in front of the telly?”

Liam grins back, and goes to dig up some snacks and find something to watch. Harry yanks on a pair of black jeans and steps out of his bedroom, ready for a relaxing night after a long day of training and an even longer cross-ocean plane ride this morning.

Instead, he slams headlong into something—some _one_ —and gets a wild elbow jabbed into his stomach and a suddenly soaking wet shirt.

“Oi,” says a voice that isn’t Liam, “you. Giant. What are you doing?”

Harry looks up, and briefly considers having a heart attack.

Louis Tomlinson is standing outside his bedroom door, having clearly just come from the shower (the one place Harry didn’t think to look to check that he and Liam were alone). He’s shirtless, dripping water falling from the tips of his fringe and onto his bare collarbone, his famous _It Is What It Is_ chest tattoo gleaming. The towel wrapped around his waist must be the kind normal people use for their hair, the tiny bit of cloth barely sweeping the middle of Tomlinson’s thick thighs. His biceps are honestly ridiculous, the cut of muscle so deep that Harry's knees go a little weak, and his shoulders are so strong they could be the foundation of entire civilizations.

Harry lives his life around elite athletes. He pretty much can't be fazed by shirtless guys anymore; or, at least, he didn't _think_ he could, at least not until the exact image from the front cover of the 2015 ESPN Body Issue stood a mere six inches from him and changed his mind.

A small, tan hand appears in front of Harry’s face and snaps, twice.

“Helloooo,” says Tomlinson, a single eyebrow raised. “Earth to spaceman, come in, spaceman.”

“Uh,” Harry says.

“It speaks!” Tomlinson exclaims.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“It speaks English!” Tomlinson says.

“I’m Harry Styles,” Harry says, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks.

“And it has a name. Hello, Harry Styles, I’m Louis Tomlinson.” Tomlinson lifts his hand off the knot of his towel and the fabric starts to slide, so he hastily grabs for it again. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t think we’re quite acquainted enough for you to see the goods yet.”  

Harry chokes on nothing. “No, erm, I don’t think we are,” he agrees weakly after his airways are clear again.

“Right. So you’re, what, a volleyball player?” Tomlinson looks Harry up and down, and Harry can feel it like a physical touch. “No, not that. Not an uneven enough tan for tennis, not wide enough shoulders for rugby, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure we don’t have a basketball team. Oh!” he snaps his fingers. “You’re a swimmer.”

“What gave it away?”

“Feet like flippers and your waist is actually smaller than mine,” Tomlinson says carelessly. “Also, your hair’s still wet and the shower is small enough I would’ve noticed if you were in there with me.”

Harry chokes again. This time, Liam hears, and comes scrambling around the corner with a bottle of water. “Oh,” he says when he sees Tomlinson there next to Harry. “Hello.”

“Another one appears,” Tomlinson says, tilting his head. “Are you a swimmer as well?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, a little cautiously. Harry wonders if it’s the fame or the unimpressed eyebrow that’s making Liam wary. “Distance, I’m doing the 1500m. Harry here’s a sprinter.”

“Ah,” says Tomlinson, turning his glinting eyes back to Harry. “So you’re not an endurance man.” A beat passes, his grin grows, wide and filthy. “Shame.”

Too bad Harry didn’t write a will before he left London, because Louis Tomlinson is trying his damnedest to kill him, and he’s doing a pretty good job.

“Anyway,” Tomlinson says over the strangled noise Harry makes. “What wild plans do you two have for tonight?” He's still gripping the knot of his towel, though it's slipped a little further and they're in danger of seeing something that is guaranteed to keep Harry awake for weeks if it falls any lower. There’s a bead of water stuck on his nipple that Harry wants to lick off so badly he sways with it.

“I found Anchorman on TV,” Liam says brightly. “And Harry brought this low-cal popcorn that won’t mess up our diets, so we’re gonna eat that and have a film night.”

Tomlinson stares at them for a minute like he’s not sure if they’re joking. “Really?” he asks skeptically. “You’re in Rio, party city of the world, and you’re staying in to watch a film?”

“It’s a really good film,” Liam argues, brow furrowed.

“A bad party is better than a good film,” Tomlinson says.

“And we were gonna hit the gym later,” Liam adds, a little less sure.

“It’s training week, you’ve got plenty of time to spend in a gym.” Tomlinson finally opens his bedroom door and starts digging in his open suitcase, presumably for some clean clothes. “C’mon, lads. Some friends of mine are on the way over, and we’ll show you a good time.”

Liam and Harry exchange a look; Harry really was looking forward to an early night, and something about Tomlinson makes him nervous. Jittery. They should just say no, have a night in, find the gym, and not fuck up their strict training diets just because Louis Tomlinson wants them to party.

Then Tomlinson drops his towel, completely unabashed.

Harry’s brain stops making thoughts and his mouth blurts out, “Okay.”

And Tomlinson grins like he’s just stuck his first landing of the Games.

◯◯◯◯◯

By a few friends coming to join them for a night out, Tomlinson failed to mention that they’d be partying with Olympic royalty; Michael Phelps shows up at the door with a smile, Ryan Lochte at his shoulder shaking a bag of weed, followed by a small herd of similarly tall men decked head to toe in red, white, and blue. The unlikely pair of Novak Djokovic and Jessica Ennis is next, accompanied by a smaller Irish guy with bleach blonde hair and a wide grin, who introduces himself as “Niall, Niall Horan, beach volleyball. How are ya?”

The door stays wide open and more people filter in; tiny gymnasts and famous footballers and one guy who says he’s here for table tennis, which Harry sort of thought was a joke until Liam told him that’s a real Olympic sport. A few people have changed into jeans or dresses but most are still in their athletic gear, Nike and Adidas and Under Armour as far as the eye can see.

Niall, who seems to know everyone who walks through the door, sticks by Liam and Harry’s side as the place fills, filling the space with easy chatter. He’s got a story for everything and everyone and he and Liam bounce off of each other like excitable pinballs, laughter and crinkly-eyes for days.

“Alright,” says Tomlinson as the crowd in the apartment becomes truly ridiculous proportions, bounding between two Australian rugby players and ending up right in front of Harry. “Just got the message, we’re meeting Melo at this place he knows.”

“Melo?” Liam asks.

“Carmelo Anthony,” Louis says, and when Harry makes a noise of amazement a slow, wide smile spreads across his face. “Buckle in, boys. You’ve never partied like the Olympians party.”

◯◯◯◯◯

_Sunday_

Harry wakes facedown in the toilet the next morning, his phone blaring an insistent alarm, someone else groaning behind the shower curtain. When Harry fumbles his phone out of his pocket, ignoring the pile of messages from his mum, sister, and coach, a hand reaches out and slides the curtain aside.

Louis Tomlinson, dark circles under his eyes, something green dried on his cheek, and his hair so wild he looks like he’s been electrocuted, grins widely at Harry. “Told ya,” he says, voice little more than a rasp, and he chuckles when Harry groans and rolls backwards to rest against the wall.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs helplessly. “I guess you did.”

◯◯◯◯◯

_Wednesday_

The next few days pass in a similar fashion—Harry wakes with his alarm at five in the morning, meets Liam and they grab a bus to the aquatic centre, go through their daily training regimens until they're tired and achey in the most accomplished ways, and then they get a few short hours of rest before Louis and Niall are dragging them back out for a night of fun.

One night finds them joining a midnight beach volleyball game with some Swiss girls who take a liking to Niall, and when he stumbles back into the apartment the next morning he's covered in faded lipstick and sunscreen and won't stop grinning.

Another night concludes with Louis sneaking them into the VIP area of a club that's so elite, rumour has it even Serena Williams was turned away. They each chug a glass of ridiculously expensive champagne before their waiter catches on that they don’t belong and they're escorted out and asked politely to never return.

The fourth night includes a bit of swimming out at the Copacabana beach, and Harry and Liam turn it into a competition: Niall and Louis hold increasingly difficult challenges for them to decide who in the group is the Ultimate Swimmer, things like being able to strip and swim at the same time and who can hold their breath underwater longer. By the end, they can't remember how many points anyone has and Louis drunkenly declares himself king of the ocean instead. Liam and Harry, both unwillingly enamoured, let him have that one.

On Harry's fourth day in Rio he wakes with the sun, his now usual headache pounding at his temples, and yawns widely as he gets dressed. Sweatpants, jacket, socks, right shoe, left shoe, bag, done; he meets Liam in the lobby of the building and they're off, another day unfolding before them.

“Wonder what Louis has planned for us tonight,” Harry says as the silence unwinds between them, the bus to the training centre mostly empty except for a few divers wanting to get in an early workout.

Liam hums and rubs sleepily at his eyes, grinning a little. “Dunno. But I'm sure it'll be trouble.”

They exchange an amused look, and they can pretend it's unwilling all they want but the two of them are in deep; Louis lives up to his charm, and no scheme sounds too crazy when he's smiling at you.

Harry's still smiling when he leaves the pool a few hours later, draping a towel around his shoulders and shivering a bit from the cool air conditioning on his wet skin. In fact, he's so wrapped up in thoughts of Louis and the boys and their plans tonight that it takes his coach three tries to get his attention.

“Styles!” Mark yells, and Harry shakes his head in an attempt to clear it.

“Sorry, Coach. Need something?”

“Let's chat a moment,” Mark says, gesturing to an empty set of stadium seats, far from the rest of the team still wrapping up their practice runs. He gives Harry a scrutinising look as he sits, running clammy hands over his still-wet swim gear. “Everything alright, Harry?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Mark is still watching him carefully. “Good. I'm asking because your lap times aren't matching up to what is normal, and I'm wanting to see if we can pinpoint why. Have you been doing anything different lately?”

Harry thinks of the past three nights, the first time in years he's stayed up until PM switches to AM, getting drunk when he usually abstains the week before a competition, the cigarette he'd passed around with the boys last night (not inhaling, never inhaling, but the taste of smoke still sits heavy in his mouth no matter how much toothpaste he used).

He thinks of himself, stretched out on a sandy beach last night, the lights of Rio behind him bouncing off the waves, sharp salt scent in the air, and the way he couldn't look away from Louis’ mouth.

He thinks of how that's never been an issue before. How he's never worried about breaking his no-sex-before-competitions rule because there has never been anyone tempting enough for him to _want_ to break it.

He thinks that it's only been three days, and that he's in deep trouble.

And he says, “No, nothing different,” because if he admits there's a boy then he has to admit that something _is_ different, something that makes this boy in this place something new he's never dealt with before.

Mark shrugs, not pushing the subject. “Well, whatever it is, keep it up.”

The world grinds to a halt. “What?”

“Whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it,” Mark says. “Your turnaround times are sharper, your kickoff is better, and you're closing in on 46 seconds. Whatever's changed must want you to win.”

The chant in the back of Harry's mind— _no distractions! No distractions! No boys no drinks no drugs no nothing!_ —battles with what Mark just said, and the ensuing mayhem makes Harry's throat close up with anxiety.

“Right,” he gets out. “Thanks.”

And then he flees to the locker room so he doesn't have to think about anything at all.

◯◯◯◯◯

They’re on the beach again, the waves crashing a pleasant background song, passing bottles of Corona and wondering if life gets better, when Louis says, “So, Harold.”

It’s been four days in Rio, and yet Harry’s never felt more comfortable than he does right here, on warm sand, with his three new friends around him. Liam is as unshakeably positive as always, his bright grin and passion the only thing that helps Harry wake up on the way to their morning workouts. Niall is the best friend Harry always wanted when he was younger, clever and warm and wonderful, the kind to remember every little insignificant detail about everyone else—making sure he never orders Liam’s sandwiches with gherkins and suggesting restaurants that don’t use groundnut oil because Jessica Ennis has an allergy and complimenting Harry’s Team GB outfits because he once said he doesn’t feel like he looks very good in them.

And then Louis. Louis, who came into Harry’s life like a strike of lightning, like the flash of a camera, like the whistle on a starting line before Harry hurls himself into waiting water. Harry was wary at first, and he feels like that was within reason—the media version of Louis is sweet but unpredictable, can switch from kind to downright vicious at the drop of a hat. But the real Louis isn’t quite so sharp; quick-witted and sly, sure, but the closest Harry’s seen Louis get to the vitriolic man in pages of The Sun is when a cyclist ran over Liam’s foot and left a tyre-shaped bruise. He’s incredibly intelligent, cunning and shrewd and five steps ahead of everyone else at any given time, but he’s gentle with it: he’s gentle when he takes Liam’s phone and corrects the spelling errors in his tweets, and he’s gentle with Niall who wants to follow every pretty girl who gives him a second look even though he knows he falls easily and falls hard, and he’s gentle when Harry breaks some unwritten Olympian code because he’s still wide-eyed and wondering at the whole experience. He’s so much more real than Harry could’ve imagined back when he saved the posters of Louis wearing nothing but a Union Jack and hid them under his bed. He talks to his little sisters back in England every day, and he’s disarmingly charming, and he’s the sexiest goddamn creature on two legs that Harry’s ever set eyes on but he wears it so well you don’t even notice until you’re caught dumbstruck.

In short, he’s wonderful, he’s beautiful, and he’s more than Harry could have ever imagined.

And he’s grinning at Harry in a way that promises trouble.

“So, Harold,” he says. “Got anyone special back home?”

Harry, who’s regained the ability of speech in the face of Louis’ saccharine attention, sips from his bottle and rolls his head to raise an inquiring eyebrow at Louis. “Hmm. My cat’s back home, s’pose she’s pretty special.”

Louis flips a bottlecap at him, snickering. “Dork. I’ll be more specific—any pretty girl you’ve got waiting for you to come back with a medal? I know how you swim boys are with your groupies.”

Harry’s stomach flips, but he’s long practiced at keeping his smile in place. “Nah, no one for me.” He digs his feet under the warm dry sand and finds a cool pocket, the grit tickling his soles. He almost asks, _you?_ and then feels stupid for forgetting Zayn Malik waiting for Louis back in England, though Louis hasn’t mentioned him at all. So instead he asks, “How’s Zayn?”

Louis shoves his feet under the sand as well, his brown toes wiggling free. “Fine, I’m sure.” It sounds like a media answer, his face pleasantly blank.

Quiet, a rarity around Louis, settles between them, at least until Niall kicks a found football their way and they scramble to their feet to join in. Harry doesn’t ask anything else, but he catches Louis looking his way more than once, and wonders what it is Louis sees.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Thursday_

The lift breaks down in the apartment block Team GB is assigned to, which is the cherry on top of the sundae that is Harry’s Thursday. His lap times dropped in practice today, he nearly dropped a bench press bar on his foot in the gym, and the air conditioner in his and Louis’ apartment is still not working so he didn’t sleep well last night. After he kicks at the bottom of the apartment door to get it to open (because the lock stuck and now their keys don’t work anymore), he steps inside and drops his duffel to the floor, tired and in desperate need of a nap.

“‘lo,” says the cyclist from the last room, the one whose name Harry still hasn’t learned yet (and Harry feels bad. He does. He’s just been a bit, well. Distracted).

“Hey, man,” Harry breathes, tipping his head back against the door. “What’s up?”

“Just, ah. Avoiding the living room for a while,” Cyclist says. The fencer in the first bedroom, a girl with long blonde hair in a rigid plait down her back, steps out of the living room as well and sends them a small smile.

“Why?” Harry asks, but all he gets from Cyclist is a grin as he steps into his own bedroom. Harry turns to the fencer and tries her next. “What’s going on?” but she doesn’t answer either, just patting Harry’s shoulder and shutting herself in her room as well.

“What?” Harry asks the empty hallway; again, no one answers.

Harry sighs and shoulders his bag again, deciding to confront whatever it is in the living room early so maybe then he can move on and nap.

Looking back, he should’ve just went to sleep.

“Oh, hello, Haz,” says Louis when he enters the room, and Harry has to fall into the nearest chair to avoid his knees giving out on him.

Louis is doing yoga. Or maybe not yoga, because yoga isn’t sexual but whatever Louis is doing definitely is; it’s some sort of contortioning, Louis spread out across the floor in a full sideways splits, his chest to the floor and his back arched obscenely. He moves slowly, bringing one leg back and leaning sideways, his muscles rippling.

He’s shirtless, chest gleaming with a layer of sweat, and wearing the tiniest, tightest hot pink spandex shorts that Harry has ever seen.

“Ghrbshsm,” Harry garbles back, and he can see Louis tuck a smile back as he reaches upward, his back muscles tightening and his thighs flexing.

“How was practice?” Louis asks, his voice slowed to match his moments as he pulls himself up into an easy backbend, peering up at Harry upside down.

“Er, g-good,” Harry stutters out. “What- what’re you doing?”

“Stretching.” Louis shifts and groans as a muscle loosens. “Was feeling a little— _ah_ —tight.”

Harry’s face is hot. Like, fire hot. Holy _shit_ , hot.

“But it feels,” Louis says, voice like sex and Harry can’t _handle_ it, “ _so_ good to loosen up.”

Fuck. _Fuck._ Harry’s heart thumps so hard his chest hurts, his veins lit with gasoline and need, his fingers itching to reach out and trace the bumps of Louis’ spine. He’s never wanted anyone like this before. He didn’t know want like this _existed._

Louis crawls— _crawls_ —over to the wall and lifts himself up into a handstand, his toes and nose touching the wall, his form perfect. “Probably not the kind of workout you’re used to, though, is it?” he asks, then slides his legs down so he’s resting in an upside-down full split, his shorts pulling up even higher on his thigh, proving that Louis’ tan is even all over his body. That last little bit of hidden skin under Louis’ tiny shorts taunts Harry.

“I,” Harry says weakly, and can’t think of a word to follow that.

Louis slides his legs outward and tilts his hips towards the floor until he’s right side up again, holding his full weight on his hands. After a moment, he lets his bum touch the floor, resting just for a moment and looking back up at Harry. His eyes cut like knives; Harry wonders if he means for that look to slice Harry open so thoroughly.

“‘Course, I know how you swimmers are,” Louis says. His voice is flippant, the set of his jaw and the tilt of his head anything but. “Your best workouts come with a partner, right? Lots of pretty girls around here that would be willing to go in a heartbeat.”

Before Harry can formulate an answer that isn’t just blurting out _I don’t want a girl I want you I want you so badly it hurts it aches it kills_ , Louis grasps the bottom of his foot and slowly, gracefully, like an assassin drawing a blade, tucks his foot behind his head.

Harry has no choice; he runs from the room before he accidentally knocks Louis to the floor and steals as many kisses as it takes before they both run out of air.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Friday_

The morning of the Olympics Opening Ceremony, Harry is taking a break out of the pool and scrolling through his phone when he's hit with a barrage of texts.

 _Niall: Talked to Louis tday?_  
_Liam: hey h did u check twitter? is louis ok?_  
_Gemma: I’M GONNA NEED YOU TO GET SOME DEETS http://twitter.com/thesun/status/23262 &..._  
_Niall: Nvmd I found im  
Liam: he didn't say anything :( i’m going 2 call him_

Harry taps the link Gemma sent and feels his eyebrows slide up without his permission.

 **_FOOL’S GOLD? OLYMPIC STAR LOUIS TOMLINSON LEFT DEVASTATED AFTER SUDDEN SPLIT WITH ZAYN MALIK  
_ ** _BY DAN WOOTTON_

 **_FLIPPING OUT._ ** _Just days after arriving in Rio de Janeiro for the 2016 Summer Olympics, British gymnast LOUIS TOMLINSON has called it quits with long term boyfriend, musician ZAYN MALIK._

_“It's a shock, definitely,” says a source close to Tomlinson. “Louis and Zayn have been drifting apart for a while, but they thought they could still make it work.”_

_ Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik spotted canoodling outside of London club _

**_BALANCING ACT._ ** _Malik is hard at work in the studio recording for his second album. Tomlinson, meanwhile, is soaking up sun and sand ahead of the Rio Olympic Games, where he'll be competing in three events including the high bar, which he won a bronze medal for in the London 2012 Games._

_I can reveal, however, that Tomlinson’s training schedule might have been what brought an early end to his relationship._

_“Yeah, I'm training pretty much constantly,” Tomlinson admitted in an interview in June. “Lots of time at the gym. But it'll be worth it when I'm on the podium again.”_

_Tomlinson seen wearing new jewellery - is a trip down the aisle with boyfriend Malik on the horizon?_

**_CHALKED UP._ ** _Tomlinson’s intense training schedule might have been exactly what tipped them over the edge, causing Malik frustration and making him lash out at friends and reporters. Last week, I reported that Malik_ _walked out of an interview_ _with yours truly after being pressed about his relationship._

_My source tells me that Malik and Tomlinson were sleeping in different rooms before Tomlinson left for Brazil, and that Tomlinson’s obsession over a medal is definitely a major reason for their breakup._

_“Louis’ training was definitely not a major reason for the end of their relationship,” the source says. “Louis and Zayn decided to split up amicably, and they're still friends.”_

_Perhaps we’ll see more of that famous Tomlinson ferocity when he and Malik, now bitter exes, are back in the same city._

Harry taps on Niall's contact and brings his phone to his ear.

“Haz?” Niall asks, his voice tinny in Harry's ear. “Aren't you in training?”

“Taking a break,” Harry answers. “Tell me—is Louis okay? I just saw.”

“Yeah, mate, he's.” Niall pulls the phone away and says something, the words muffled like he put his hand over the speaker. Then he's back. “He's fine. Go finish your swimming, you can talk to him later.”

“But-”

“Go, H. He's fine. We’ll all meet back at your place before we head to the Opening Ceremony.”

Then he hangs up, a sudden click and heavy silence. Harry sets the phone aside blankly, not really sure what to do with himself.

His new friend, his new already _extremely close_ friend is probably hurting, his private business and sensitive subject matter splashed all over the gossip rags. He's going through something terrible, and all Harry can think-

All Harry can think about is that tiny, treacherous bubble of hope that blooms in his chest, the one that says, _now you're both single._

Harry tries to pop it with realistic thoughts, thoughts about how it doesn't matter if they're both single, because Harry's in the closet and Louis is very much not and Louis also very very clearly thinks he's straight.

Somehow, the hope only grows.

 _It can't happen,_ Harry reminds himself desperately.

The hope doesn't listen.

“Well done, Harry,” Mark says as Harry hoists himself out of the pool after his last lap. “Your times just keep improving. Keep it up.”

And the hope grows larger still.

◯◯◯◯◯

The Parade of Nations isn’t until the end of the Opening Ceremony, but all seventeen thousand competing athletes walk from the Olympic Village to the arena together, sort of an untelevised Parade of their own. It’s alphabetical, so Team GB is in the middle of the massive, snaking line of athletes, three hundred or so British competitors decked out in their Stella McCartney navy blue. They can hear the noise and the music from inside the stadium even from blocks away, but that part’s for the televised audience, not for them; some athletes watch the proceedings on screens set up for people outside the arena, but most are too busy greeting familiar faces from foreign nations to bother with dancers and fire.

Andy Murray is holding the flag for Team GB but since no cameras are on them yet, he’s passed it to a volunteer and is talking with a pole vaulter from Germany. Liam and Tom Daley are deep in a discussion with two track and field athletes from Ghana, who tower over Tom and make even Liam look miniscule. Niall is with the Irish delegation but Harry can still hear him, his distinctive cackle woven through the music that seems to always exist in the Rio streets. Michael Phelps is like a visiting dignitary, swinging by the Team GB clump and shaking Harry's hand; they aren't competing against each other so there’s no weird half-rivalry (because there’s no way Michael would ever think of Harry as a threat), and Michael is of the _any friend of Louis’ is a friend of mine_ school of thought. Louis, who is next to Harry and trying really hard to pretend nothing out of the ordinary—like the end of his long term relationship—happened today, lets Michael wrap him in a hug and murmur a few words in his ear. Louis shrugs and smiles, sending Michael on his way. In the relative silence left behind, Harry nudges Louis with his toe.

“We don't have to talk about it,” he says quietly, and he sees Louis stiffen. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“I'm okay,” Louis answers automatically. Harry doesn’t say anything else, just watches him for a second, trying to convey that he really is here if Louis wants to talk. After a moment, Louis’ shoulders slump and his face drops out of its uncomfortable press-ready smile. “Really, I am okay. It's not like this is unexpected, though of course they'd drop it on the day of the Opening Ceremony and not bother to warn me ahead of time.”

“Wait, you knew there'd be an article?” Harry asks, baffled. “And you didn't say anything to them so they couldn't print it?”

“Why would I do that?” Louis asks, smile a little mocking and a lot sad. “Can't get any promo out of it if there's no article.”

“I'm confused,” Harry admits. Then the answer dawns on him. “Wait. Was it just a PR relationship?”

“Sort of?” Louis answers, sounding like he doesn't really know the answer himself. “It started that way, then Zayn and I became... We- we decided- Well, some parts were real, and some parts were fake. And some parts I didn't realise weren't real until his manager informed me we'd be breaking up in August, so I should prepare myself.”

“Oh, god,” Harry says, his heart aching. “Lou, I'm so sorry.”

“Nah,” Louis says, waving his hand. “That was back in June, so I've known a while. And it's supposed to be better for both of us this way. He gets press right before his album drops, and I get headlines to run right next to the early Olympics coverage, and it's been a couple of months so I'm over it by now and it won’t affect my gymnastics.”

Harry shoots him a look, unconvinced. Louis sighs again, and doesn't try to convince him.

“Okay, _mostly_ over it.” He smiles grimly up at Harry. “The funny thing is, that idiot reporter did get one thing right—we’d been sleeping in separate rooms for months. Dunno if Zayn knew we’d be breaking up before I did, or if he just wasn’t feeling it anymore.” Louis stops, rubs his knuckles roughly against his bicep. “Wonder if he was the one who told that bit to the gossip rags. They like a bit of truth to make a fake story seem more real.”

“So, you've been, what, faking it?” Harry asks quietly. “For months?”

Louis smiles again, and this time, Harry can see that bit of him that's all steel, sharp edged to make others hurt. “Welcome to the life of a high profile Olympian, Harold,” he says. “It is what it is.”

The stadium roars when Team Great Britain enters, but Harry can't look away from Louis, a brighter spot than all the camera flashes aimed their way. He says he's okay and Harry believes him, and by the end of the long walk across the length of the stadium Louis is even playing with the crowd, blowing kisses and waving cheerfully at all the little boys and girls waving to him first.

As they leave the hot, bright lights of the world's attention behind them, Louis scrambles his way onto Harry's back and Harry laughs so hard his knees shake. Liam snaps a picture with his phone and Harry posts it on his Instagram, the caption simply: _Rio._

◯◯◯◯◯

_Saturday_

Of the four of them, Niall is the first one to compete. He and his partner, a wide-shouldered and bronzed guy named Bressie who’s built like the Olympians of old, kick off their first match in a spray of sand and curses.

They're a good team; Bressie's strong and steady and holds down the centre of the court, while Niall races to the four corners of their square of sand, throwing himself all over to bat away the easy points from the Egyptian team. Harry knows next to nothing about volleyball but he knows to stand when Bressie and Niall roar at the sky and to cheer when Niall points his, Louis’, and Liam's way in celebration.

It’s a warm day and they’re dressed to match it: Niall had enough green in his suitcase to spare, so Louis, Liam, and Harry are decked out in Irish pride and even wrapped in an orange, green, and white flag. At the end of the first set, Niall and Bressie go up 1-0 and retire to their chairs, smiling but still determinedly discussing strategy for the next set.

“He looks so confident,” Liam says, waving the flag again and catching Niall’s eye, who grins at them. The camera has to pan quickly away from him when he clearly says, _ya look good in green, ya cunts._

“He should be, they’re killing it,” Louis says. A few photographers have followed Niall’s line of sight and are taking pictures of the Team GB defectors who are supporting an Irishman rather than someone from their own nation. Harry thinks that surely can’t be news, but he’s been proven wrong before—yesterday, the Daily Star back in England ran a story about how Harry should grow up and be a professional swimmer by finally cutting his hair. Buzzfeed UK retaliated with **_Team GB’s Harry Styles has the best hair of the Olympics: 20 pictures that prove we’re right._ **

“He doesn’t seem nervous, though,” Liam says. His brow is wrinkled like he can’t puzzle out an answer. “How is he not nervous?”

Harry hums and shrugs. Niall doesn’t seem like the type to be fazed by anything. First match of the Olympics? Eh, whatever. Largest audience he’s ever played in front of? Cool. Weight of a nation’s hopes resting on his shoulders? No big.

He looks over at Louis, who’s biting his lip. “Do _you_ get nervous before your competitions?” he asks, because surely not: Louis is supremely cool in the face of most situations, surely the thing he’s best at is no big deal for him.

“Of course,” Louis says. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not Niall,” Liam replies, brow still furrowed.

“I don’t,” Harry shrugs again. “Not really, I guess.”

“How?”

“Well, I’m not really expected to win, am I?” Harry says, stretching his arm over the back of Louis’ seat. “My times are good, but not great. I’ll probably make it to the semis, maybe the final, but winning is a long shot. I’m just here to do as well as I can, and if that gets me to the podium that’s awesome.”

“You don’t think you’ll win?” Louis asks, sounding confused.

“Do you go into every meet thinking you’ll win?” Harry counters.

“Yes,” Louis answers immediately.

“Well, I don’t,” Harry shrugs. “I do my best, I work hard, and of course I’ll try. But I won’t be surprised if I don’t win, because it’s such a small chance.”  

A whistle blows; down on the sand, Niall and Bressie stand and do a complicated handshake before they go back to their places.

They take the match two sets to one. Harry wonders if Niall goes into every match thinking he’ll win.

And Harry wonders if that really makes a difference.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Sunday_

“C’mon, Harry, we’re gonna be late!” Liam calls across the sparsely populated lobby of the training centre. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, watching Harry sprint towards him while simultaneously trying to stuff his clothes and wet towels and tangled headphones into his bag.

“Coming!” Harry shouts back, his hair flopping in his eyes and rendering him temporarily blind; he barely sees the toddler in Brazilian green and yellow before he hurdles over her, hearing her giggle as he lands.

“Go go go!” Liam says, and they hurtle out of the training centre. The Arena Olímpica do Rio isn’t far from the training centre and by the time they found a bus they’d be even later, so Liam and Harry are running for it. They dodge Olympians and spectators alike as they book it, Harry’s lungs burning a little (and he thinks that can be excused—he _did_ just swim for two hours). Liam doesn’t look winded at all, but fuck him, he actually likes running.

Liam’s phone rings as they crash around the corner of the indoor volleyball and basketball stadium. “What, Niall?” he snaps when he answers. Harry can hear Niall screeching on the other end of the line, and Liam shrieks, “I _know_ we’re late, Harry took forever!”

“Don’t blame me,” Harry pants, his legs heavy, “Coach made me do extra laps!”

“We’ll be there in three,” Liam says, and throws his phone back in his pocket.

It’s inching towards four o’clock as they approach the arena, wading through the crowds and apologizing as they accidentally trample feet. They burst through the door and hold up their athlete badges, the volunteer barely checking them before she waves them through. Liam and Harry sprint up some stairs and down some other stairs and, finally, they’re here.

“Welcome,” says a booming voice, in English first and then Spanish and then Portuguese, “to the men’s gymnastics individual trials!”

“Finally!” Niall says when they find him. He’s got a flag draped across three seats right at the front against the rail and they fall into them, applauding tiredly as the gymnasts from Japan are announced and they wave to the crowd. “Jesus, thought I was going to have to hold down the Tommo cheering section all by meself.”

“We’re here,” Harry pants, holding his hand to his chest. “Does he know we’re late?”

Niall snorts. “I think so, yeah.”

Harry looks where he’s pointing and groans. Louis is standing with the rest of the Team GB gymnasts in their navy and white, and he’s watching Harry and Liam catch their breath with an unimpressed eyebrow raised, completely aloof and professional while still looking like he wants to tie Harry and Liam’s shoelaces together.

“Sorry, Lou!” Harry calls, and he doesn’t even know if Louis can even hear him over the music and announcer and the cheers from the crowd, but he thinks he sees the corner of Louis’ mouth tic up in a smile. Harry grins back at him, knowing he’s forgiven.

“So,” Liam says as Harry settles back and tries to right his dishevelled clothing, all windswept and hanging weirdly from their sprint over. “What’s Louis doing today?”

“He’s on parallel bars, then vault, then the horizontal bar,” Niall answers, flicking through a programme. “He’ll probably place high at the horizontal bar, give him a good lead-in to the finals later this week. And this year’s been really weak for parallel bar scores, so he’s got a good chance there as well.”

Liam and Harry stare. “How do you know all this?” Harry asks, bewildered.

Niall grins. “I met Louis at the London Games, got to know ‘im a little. I came to watch all his competitions and he told me about what was going on, and I like to keep up with him and his world rankings.” He reaches under his seat and grabs a water bottle, taking a sip. “Also, I really like the movie Stick It.”

Liam laughs, ruffling Niall’s hair. “All right then.”

The competition takes a while to unfold; unlike swimming, where everything hinges on two minutes in the water, gymnastics is a sport of stops and starts. Louis shucks his jacket so that he’s wearing a skin-tight spandex top and his sweatpants, his biceps on display as he stretches and keeps loose, watching the other gymnasts warm up. He doesn’t talk much with the other members of the Great Britain team, though he does exchange a few words here and there with a trainer sitting near him. He seems totally focused, completely in his element.

But then, like he’s receiving some sort of signal, Louis grabs his backpack and lines up behind five other men to walk to the parallel bars. As soon as he gets to his spot, he drops his sweatpants so that he’s barefoot and clad in tiny shorts and that same infuriatingly tight shirt. He starts to stretch more vigorously, then slides two tan bands around his upper arms.

“What’re those for?” Harry whispers, feeling a little bit like he’s talking in the middle of church; like the Arena is sacred space and he, with his cluelessness and barely-contained hunger for the gymnast across the floor, is desecrating it.

“So his skin doesn’t catch on the bars,” Niall answers. He holds out a bag of popcorn and Harry takes a handful, the salt heavy in his mouth. “You’ll see.”

Louis is third to go on the parallel bars. He dusts his hands in chalk, smacks the bars a couple of times in a way that would be funny if it wasn’t for the sheer concentration on his face. The trainer he’d been talking with checks the bar width, stomps the mat a couple of times like he’s not sure it’ll hold up to scrutiny. Finally, though, Louis and the trainer nod and Louis is left alone, under a hundred burning spotlights. A Russian athlete nearby is doing his floor routine; he could catch fire and do a tango, and Harry still doesn’t think he’d be able to look away from Louis.

Louis puts his hands on the bars and lifts himself up, his toes pointed and his thighs tight, and so it begins.

Harry doesn’t know what to look for to know if Louis is doing well or not by the judges’ standards, but he knows Louis, and the minute facial expressions barely caught by the camera give him away. He pulls himself up, spins, and into a handstand, lifts one hand off the bar and twirls, and there’s a hint of a smile; that must’ve been good. Another handstand, a full-body spin, and Louis’ brow furrows the tiniest bit; not so good. He throws himself forward so that he’s at the ends of the bars and backflips, once, twice, three times, and this time Niall whispers, _“Yes_ ,” so that must be good too.

It’s only about a minute and a half of graceful, breathtaking movement, and then Louis is winding up, one forward flip, two, and then he’s dismounting, spinning tightly through the air and landing, feet together, and bouncing only the slightest bit on the mat.

“Yeah!” Niall cheers, and so do the rest of the spectators sporting their Team GB gear. Harry and Liam follow suit, Harry whistling loudly as Louis fist pumps, just once, like he can’t contain it.

Harry doesn’t know what the score means when Louis gets it but Louis looks satisfied, and his name goes above the others on the screen next to the parallel bars.

“He’ll qualify with that, for sure,” Niall says knowledgeably, clapping.

On to vault, after that. A quick sprint and a trick at the end; that seems so much more straightforward. At least until Niall tries to explain it.

“There’s all these deductions, right?” he says, leaning towards Harry. “He could do the greatest flip in the history of flips but if he doesn’t land correctly, or if his arms are bent when they’re supposed to be straight, or if his flip isn’t perfectly in line with the vault thing. It’s ridiculous."

“Jesus,” Harry breathes.

Louis steps into a box of chalk, sprays something on his feet, and raises his arm to acknowledge the crowd. A beat of silence, then he starts to run.

Harry knows the basics: round-off, backhandspring, and then Louis is launching himself off the vault, twisting three times rapidly in the air and landing, the slightest inch of space between his feet.

“That was good, right?” Harry asks over the cheering crowd.

“Really good!”

And then it’s Louis’ final event; a half hour after the vault, Louis shucks his sweatpants again and stands looking up at the high bar, his hands chalked white once more.

He takes a deep breath Harry can feel across the arena, bounces on his toes, and then his trainer steps out to help lift him up; finally, he’s on the bar.

Harry holds his breath through the entire routine, through every unimaginable twist and release of the bar, Louis flying impossibly through the air, but it turns out Harry needn’t worry; by the roar of the crowd and Louis’ wide smile as he dismounts, he nailed it.

Harry’s the first one on his feet, he and Liam whooping loudly, Niall dancing next to them.

“He did it!” Liam yells.

“Finals, here we come!” Niall shouts.

Harry meets Louis’ eye across the room; there’s a lot of space between them, but Louis still reaches in and steals the breath right out of his chest.

Louis punches at the air, and Harry tips his head back and howls in solidarity.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Monday_

The day after Louis’ trials and the day before Harry’s first heats, all four of them have a day off.

Well, not really, because they’re Olympic athletes with truly ridiculous training regimens and can’t really afford actually having days off, but it’s the closest thing they get to it. Liam and Harry head off at five AM to their morning training, out of the gym and the pool by ten so they can catch a nap before Niall finds them somewhere to go for lunch. After a meal of Brazilian tapas (“Lots of proteins, lots of carbs, nothing with sugar,” Niall orders, and the waitress grins. “Four Olympian specials, got it.”), they had back to the apartment to relax until Niall’s late afternoon practice with Bressie and Harry and Liam’s evening cardio.

“Is anyone going to judge me if I change into pyjamas?” Liam asks, rifling through his bag. He’s unofficially moved into the room the cyclist used to be in, who was disqualified after the timed trials and is already back in England. Liam had been assigned to an apartment with two women’s gymnasts and a volleyball player, which sounds like every straight man’s wet dream but that Liam just said made him uncomfortable, so he moved in the moment the cyclist was gone.

“Go with your heart, Liam,” Harry says sagely. “I plan on wearing as little as possible.”

“Swimmers,” Niall says, he and Louis exchanging an eye roll.

Harry retreats to his room and shucks his shirt and shoes, content in just his sweatpants and nothing else. He grabs three water bottles from the fridge and settles in, ready for an afternoon of doing nothing at all.

“Louis,” he calls towards Louis’ bedroom. “Did you want to watch- guh-”

Louis, wearing yoga leggings and nothing else, lounges in the doorway. The sun cuts patterns from the shape of his abs and hipbones, and the sharp jut of his collarbones match his glorious cheekbones. “Do I want to watch guh?” he asks teasingly, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I know what that is.”

Harry tries to speak, but his mouth is too dry for words. Instead, he silently holds out the remote, a measly offering for the bronzed god of mischief and shoulder muscles before him.

Louis takes the remote and tosses it so it lands on Niall; he’s already half-asleep, his head tipped back against the couch cushion, mouth open wide. The TV stays on the same channel, showing muted reruns of the events from the day before. Niall grunts and shoves the remote to the floor, smacking his lips and closing his eyes. Louis giggles and settles on the couch next to Harry, a tiny ball of heat up against Harry’s side. Harry, without thinking, wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulders.

“Sleepy,” Louis says, and rubs his cheek against Harry’s shoulder. Harry hums in agreement as Liam steps into the room, wearing an old faded t-shirt and warm flannel pants. He smiles at Harry and Louis and claims a spot on the floor, immediately enraptured by the archery trials from the day before.

“Mm, switch it to today’s events,” Louis mumbles, waving his hand at Liam. “Women’s trials are on, wanted to watch Aliya.”

“Aliya?”

“Mustafina. Russian gymnast, scariest person I’ve ever met,” he says through a yawn, “but sweet as a kitten when she likes you.” Liam grabs the remote and changes the channel, girls in sparkly spandex filling the screen. Louis’ eyelashes flutter drowsily.

“Ah,” Harry says, resting his head on Louis’. Louis chuckles sleepily when Harry’s curls tickle his nose, and then he huffs, and then his breathing evens out, muscles slack with sleep.

“That’s adorable,” Liam whispers, sliding his phone out of his pocket and snapping a picture.

Harry waits a second, then says, “Text that to me.”

Liam grins and nods. Harry feels his phone buzz and then it’s quiet again. Liam spins his phone against the floor, metal against carpet, looking contemplative. Harry waits for him to ask whatever he wants to ask, the question clear on his face.

“Haz,” Liam asks quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Are you two… You and Louis, are you?” Liam looks frustrated at his own lack of words. “Is anything… going on? With you two?”

Louis shifts in his sleep and snuffles against Harry’s arm, then quiets again. Harry looks down at him, his eyelashes dark against the thin skin under his eyes. There’s something sweet about the tilt of his eyebrows, the purse of his lips, his messy hair falling in front of his eyes.

“No,” Harry says, and Liam makes a noise like he doesn’t believe him. Harry looks away from Louis’ face and notices Niall’s eyes fluttering awake as well, waiting on his answer. “Nothing is happening. Nothing can happen.”

“But,” Liam says, and doesn’t say anything else.

Harry smiles sadly, because he understands. He’s known it since he signed the papers and got the Team GB gear three years ago, known that private lives aren’t private in the national eye, and that every move he makes has the potential to impact his career if the wrong person takes offense at something he’s done. Liam’s a team alternate, hasn’t been under nearly the amount of scrutiny Harry’s been under, and Niall’s from a different country entirely, where people like the writers for the Daily Mail and the Sun aren’t lurking around every corner. They aren’t used to knowing that Harry can’t date who he wants to date; Harry’s been aware of his fate for years.

“How closely did you read your image contract?” Harry asks Liam, trying not to sound like the weight of reality crashing into Liam’s happy-go-lucky life.

“Not that thoroughly,” Liam admits.

“Yeah, I didn’t either. But, a few years ago, I started asking questions,” Harry says heavily, picking at a thread on his sweats. He’d worked up his courage, talked himself in and out and into it again, then finally got the guts to talk to the team management. His questions probably hadn’t been that subtle, and the answers he got weren’t subtle either; no, no, no. “They showed me a copy of what I signed—it’s pretty detailed, and relationships with people who might hurt the branding of our sponsors are against the contract.”

“But he’s an Olympian too,” Niall says blankly, voice rough with missed sleep.

“I know,” Harry shrugs. “But he’s a guy. And Louis’ situation is different from mine—he proved himself, _then_ came out. Everyone already knew him and loved him. If I came out now and then don’t even make the semi-finals, I’m done. My public image won’t recover, and there are enough alternates,” Harry nods to Liam, “that they don’t bother with threats. If I fuck up, do something the sponsors don’t like, I’m done.”

“It’s 2016,” Liam says, eyes sad. “It shouldn’t be like that anymore.”

“I know,” Harry agrees. “But it’s not just that. I can’t…” he sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I can’t make it this far just to get distracted at the finish line. I’ve spent my whole life doing things the exact same way, and that got me to the Olympics. I can’t change everything now.”

“But he’s different, this is different,” Niall says. “It’s _Louis.”_

God, it is. Harry hasn’t given himself a chance to step back and take the situation in, because he knows if he thinks about it too hard— _Louis Tomlinson_ , Harry’s childhood hero, crush, and nightmare all rolled into one, is tucked against him right now, warm skin against Harry’s chest making Harry’s heart flutter—he won’t be able to handle it.

Still.

“Louis would understand,” Harry says, and the words hurt his throat but he knows, deep down, it’s true. “We’ve known each other a week; less, actually. We’ve been working towards Rio for years. We can’t just throw it all away on a chance.”

Louis makes a small, sleepy noise and burrows closer to Harry. Harry pulls him closer and closes his eyes, not wanting to see Niall and Liam watching the two of them like they’re Romeo and Juliet reincarnated, rather than just two guys who are incredibly lucky in certain areas of their lives and a little unlucky in others.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Tuesday_

Harry sits on a cold chair in the call room before his first Olympic swim and waits for his life to change forever.

Well, okay, that's a bit dramatic. He sits on a cold chair in the call room of the Olympic Aquatic Stadium and waits for his heat to be called for the 100 metre freestyle, his best event. If he does well in the heat and then does well in the semi-final and somehow finds himself in the Olympic final, _then_ his life might change forever.

For right now, it's just another race. He's seen these faces before, he knows these names. He's beaten them at world competitions and he’s beaten them at competitions where there were only thirty people in the crowd and the award ceremony was just someone handing Harry a shitty medal still wrapped in plastic and being ushered from the building because the senior water aerobics classes were about to begin. He beat all these faces at those events, he’s medalled at international competitions with these same people. If he did it there, he can do it here, with the eyes of the world on him for the first time.

“Ready,” says the Olympics volunteer at the front of the room, and Harry makes his way to the back of the line, trying to ignore the cameras tracking his movements. His qualifying time puts him in lane four, the ideal spot; the outside lanes are the worst, since it's nearly impossible for anyone who swims in them to be able to judge the rest of the pool.

The men in front of him pull on their swim caps, their goggles, adjust their jackets and fiddle with their sleeves. Harry just breathes, and tries not to throw up all over the nice volunteer who ushers him out into the arena.

His heart pounds in his ears as he steps out in front of the crowd, raising his arm. He has no idea if the crowd’s cheering or not, if it’s completely silent and no one’s even looking at him; he’s got his sponsored headphones on with the Bee Gees playing softly in his ears, and he tries to pick up the beat of the percussion to regulate his breathing.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive_

Harry finds himself at lane four, checks his block, breathes. Sets his bag down, fiddles with his jacket zipper, breathes. Takes his headphones off, lets the roar of the waiting crowd fill his head, breathes. Jacket off, sweatpants off, stretch his arms, breathe. Swim cap number one on over his hair in its tight bun, goggles next, second swim cap on over the goggles straps.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It’s never been like this. He’s always been calm before races; he’s secure in his race plan, his breathing patterns, his technique. Nerves are useless, so he pushes them away—today, he can’t shake them. It’s the arena full of people watching, it’s the camera inches from his face, it’s the blue water beckoning him forward, a siren call.

A whistle blows, and Harry moves to his block.

Another whistle blows, longer this time, and Harry clambers up, stretching his back and then bending over, grasping the edge of the block platform. The arena is hushed, waiting.

“Take your mark,” the automated voice says. Harry’s muscles coil. He times his breathing.

_BEEP._

And they’re off.

Harry flings himself forward, arms straight, back straight, and slices through the water. Blue, blue, blue, and then he’s up, head out of the water, and throwing himself forward.

It’s just a heat, so he’s not going to kill himself to get the best time. His practice times could land him in the semi-finals.

But.

But the excitement in his veins burns like midnight oil, and he feels himself unleashing, closing in on the wall and powering himself into the second fifty metres with a hard kick.

Stroke, stroke, breathe. Harry’s peeks, just a little, and sees no one to his left. He’s in open water. This heat is his for the taking.

His hand touches the wall, and he pops out of the water, yanking off his goggles and caps, his hair falling free out of its bun. He ducks underwater and wets his curls, shoving them back off his face, and comes back up to wait for the times to be posted.

 _1 GBR         Harry STYLES            47.97_ _  
_ _2 USA         Caeleb DRESSEL        48.02_

Holy shit.

He’s in the semis.

Harry punches at the water, shouts, “Yes!” A wild movement catches his eye and he looks up into the stands to see Louis and Niall dancing in a circle around Liam, chanting “He won! He won! He won!” Nearby, his mum and Gemma are crying and waving, and he blows them a kiss.

Once Harry pulls himself out of the water, he throws one of his caps at his friends like a rockstar tossing his guitar pick to waiting groupies. Louis catches it and pretends to faint, Liam and Niall fanning him. They’re drawing all sorts of attention to themselves.

Distracting.

And Harry’s never been so happy to be distracted.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Wednesday_

Watching Louis watch gymnastics is almost as breathtaking as watching Louis perform gymnastics. His eyes go wide, his knuckles white, and his breath goes sharp when gymnasts try something risky, hissing a little when they miss and nodding a little when they land the trick.

It’s the women’s team final, and Harry and Louis are there by themselves; Niall wanted to go watch Novak in his tennis match, and Liam was meeting his parents and showing them around Rio, as they’ve just arrived in Brazil.

Harry touches Louis’ arm lightly. “Explain it to me.”

“Explain what?”

Harry gestures out at the floor. “What you see.”

Louis smiles, a little breathlessly, and starts to talk.

He tells Harry about being technically perfect versus taking risks. He tells Harry the names of all the tricks they see, arabesques and chassés and double doubles. He shows Harry the way the girls on the floor point their toes and flex their wrists and brush chalk on their hands and feets and thighs. He tells Harry about the girls he knows, his friend Aliya and the Great Britain team, who he’s trained with before, and the tiny American phenom Simone who’s set to sweep it all.

Time goes on, and Louis tells Harry about taking a gymnastics class as a child when his mum was desperate to find a way for him to burn off his boundless energy, and then it turned out he was really, really good. He tells Harry about his little sisters, who sometimes didn’t get to have the toys and things they deserved because gymnastics is an expensive sport. He tells Harry about being sponsored at fifteen and feeling the vice around his lungs loosen for the first time, the weight and burden of making his family pay for him to become an elite athlete softened a little.

Louis tells Harry about his dreams of running his own gym someday for kids like him, who deserve just as much of a chance as the kids whose parents have no issue paying for trainers and coaches and gear and gym time.

And he talks about when he was eighteen, and he was a newly minted member of the national team and excited about his future, and a manager convinced him that a PR image was a good idea. That when he came out he’d need someone to help control that image, and that athletes who try to handle their own PR are often slaughtered by the press and general public alike.

That the silly stories in the gossip rags didn’t seem so bad in comparison to hiding in the closet forever. That being out, being able to wear his rainbow bracelet around his wrist and being an example for LGBT kids who think the sports world isn’t for them, is worth any stupid PR relationship drama.

And Harry wishes, a prayer he sends up to the vaulted arena ceiling, that he could know what that felt like too.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Thursday_

It strikes Harry on a whim. It’s the nerves that do it; they’re back, and they seemed to help him back in the heats but he doesn’t know how to deal with them, how to control them.

So at eight o’clock on the morning of Harry’s semi-final swim, he checks his phone when he’s moving between the pool and the gym for a cooldown workout.

And his stomach drops.

 **_GOING FOR GOLD: HAS TOMLINSON FOUND NEW LOVE IN RIO? SEE THE BRITISH SWIMMER WHO STOLE HIS HEART.  
_ ** _BY DAN WOOTTON_

 **_PERFECT 10:_ ** _Earlier this week, I reported that Team Great Britain’s favourite gymnast LOUIS TOMLINSON split up with his long term boyfriend ZAYN MALIK after arguments about Tomlinson’s intense training regimen. Malik has been hard at work in the studio since the news broke recording his second album, and has not been seen with any new love interests since then._

_Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik split! Get all the details here._

**_FRESH WATER:_ ** _Since the 2016 Olympic Games began on Friday, Tomlinson has been seen in the company of many famous athletes from around the world. One swimmer seems to have caught his eye, though, and it’s not friend and Olympic legend MICHAEL PHELPS._

_I can exclusively reveal that Louis Tomlinson has found comfort after his breakup in the arms of HARRY STYLES, who swims the 100m freestyle for Great Britain._

_Rio or bust! See the best and worst dressed at the Olympics Opening Ceremony_

_“Harry and Louis are very sweet together,” a source tells me. “It’s very new, since they just met, but they’re already head over heels. And, of course, there’s the old saying - what happens at the Olympic Village stays at the Olympic Village.”_

_Reports surfaced earlier this year of massive amounts of condoms ordered for the athletes who would be staying in the Olympic Village. While Tomlinson has not commented on how the huge amounts of sexual relations he’s undoubtedly having in Rio will affect his attempt at the gold medal, many others are happy to talk about the partying and depravity._

_No doubt Tomlinson and Styles are taking advantage of all the opportunities they’ve been given._

◯◯◯◯◯

Everyone is staring. Harry can feel it, he just _knows_ it, even when he looks and doesn’t catch any eyes looking his way, he _knows._

Everyone knows he’s falling in love with Louis, all because some moron blabbed to the Sun.

The call room seems colder today. Maybe it’s because a few days ago he was able to move and keep his muscles loose, where today he’s frozen.

“Ready,” the volunteer says, and Harry takes his place at the back of the line again. His head is thudding dully, and his lungs don’t seem to be working.

Harry’s back in lane four for this race as well. He should sweep this semi easily, his coaches told him. His times are plenty fast enough to win this semi and get into the finals. Just do what he always does, and that’ll seal it for him.  

All he can see is his name in capital letters, a juicy new player for the Sun’s rabid readers, blared across his phone screen.

He makes it to his block, checks it, and can’t breathe. He tries to take his jacket off and it gets tangled in his headphones cord, yanking at his ears, and he can’t breathe. He gets down to his jammers and bare chest, and he can’t breathe.

A whistle: he takes his spot.

A second whistle: he climbs on the block.

“Take your mark.”

_BEEP._

He can tell something’s wrong from the way he hits the water, and it just gets worse from there. He can’t get his breathing right, his goggles slip and let in a little water. His muscles burn and seize as he kicks off the wall at the turn.

Fifty metres left.

Harry chances a glance to the left; he can see arms and splashes up ahead of him, and his heart beats in overtime.

 _No,_ he thinks fiercely. _I’m not going home._

He kicks harder, throws himself forward. Touches the wall, shoves himself out of the water. Rips off his caps and goggles, lets his hair free. Turns to check the times.

It takes a moment, but he ignores the other men in the water, shaking hands and pulling off their own caps, content that they did their best. Harry can’t say the same.

 _1 USA        Nathan ADRIAN             47.85_  
_2 AUS        Cameron MCEVOY         47.91  
3 GBR        Harry STYLES                 48.09_

Harry doesn’t look up at his little section of friends and family in the stands, doesn’t change out of his soaking wet suit or bother wrapping up in a towel. He stays glued to the screen in the cooldown room until the second semi-final has finished, and the full field of swimmers moving on to the final is posted.

 _7 CAN       Santo CONDORELLI       48.05_  
_8 GBR       Harry STYLES                 48.09_

He made it, but just barely.

He got distracted.

◯◯◯◯◯

Harry has a pile of congratulations texts waiting on his phone when he finally emerges from the locker room. He answers all of them, except for one.

_Louis: CONGRATS HAZZA!!!! LMK WHEN YOU’LL BE BACK TO THE APARTMENT AND WE’LL CELEBRATE THIS RIGHT_

◯◯◯◯◯

Harry stalls as long as he can before heading back to the apartment. It’s dark inside, the TV flickering in the living room, and he can see Niall asleep on the sofa again. Liam’s door is closed, and Harry can hear his gentle snoring through the thin door.

Creeping quietly, Harry makes his way to his door, laying his bag aside quietly and trying to open his door as silently as possible.

“Hey, Haz.”

Harry hunches his shoulders, grits his teeth and turns. Louis’ eyes glint in the low light, his arms crossed across his chest. He tilts his head, considering.

“Or,” he says, “should I say, hello lover.”

“Don’t,” Harry bites out. “Don’t.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. A little gay rumour never hurt anybody. You can go get photographed with a pretty girl tomorrow and everyone will forget.”

“Don’t,” Harry says again, voice like gravel. “I get that it was easy for you. It’s not easy for me.”

Louis pauses. “What’s not easy for you?”

“You come out, the world falls even more in love with you,” Harry says, and he can tell he’s a little hysterical but there’s nothing he can do about it. “If I come out, I lose everything. My sponsorships, my place on the team, my chance at gold. I lose _everything_.”

Louis’ eyes are wide. “Haz-”

“I should’ve won tonight. I could’ve won my semi, gotten a great starting place for the final. Instead I barely scraped by and now I have a terrible starting position. Because I was _distracted.”_

“Harry-”

“So _don’t_ tell me I can just brush off a little gay rumour,” Harry snarls, shouldering his bag once more and shoving his way into his room, leaving a stunned Louis out in the hallway. “Your career survived it. Mine won’t.”

◯◯◯◯◯

_Friday_

Niall’s final group stage match is the next day. Harry sends him a good luck text before he’s set to hit the sand, and settles, alone, on the sofa in the apartment to watch the match.

Liam sends him a text to ask if he’ll be joining them. At Harry’s no, Liam sends back only a sad face.

Niall and Bressie win, but it’s a close one. Harry leaves the apartment before Liam, Niall, and Louis get back, heading back to the training centre so he won’t have to deal with an awkward encounter.

He sends Niall another text to tell him congratulations, and feels like an absolute coward.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Saturday_

“Harry,” Mark says as Harry steps off the treadmill, muscles loose after a good morning swim. “Just got a message that you’re to go to team headquarters.”

“What for?” Harry asks, wiping his sweaty face with a towel.

“Sponsor business, I suppose,” Mark says, shrugging. “Get it over with quick, then make sure you get some protein in you.”

Harry nods, hoping his trepidation doesn’t show on his face. Sponsor business before the Olympics is great; during the Games, not so much. That little depressingly realistic voice in his head hopes that if he’s dropped from his sponsorships because of that article in the Sun, he at least gets to keep what he’s been given so far. He can’t imagine having to go out and find gear two days before his final race.

“Harry, hello,” says a familiar woman in a smart blazer back at the apartment block, ushering Harry into headquarters. “We’ll be right in here.”

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, but the door to a wide room opens, showing about fifteen people in their team outfits huddled in little clumps around the room, surrounded by piles of… envelopes?

“We’ve got fanmail for you,” the woman says, smiling brightly. “We have some pre-typed thank you letters that we just need signatures on, and then you can look through your pile and see what you want to keep.”

Harry, feeling like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed and that his day has only gotten weirder since, nods blankly and is shown to his little pile of mail, envelopes addressed to him in shaky block letters. He opens each one reverently, reading every word and vowing not to throw a single letter or drawing away.

The eighth letter he opens is nearly unintelligible, written in smeared crayon. It’s accompanied by a drawing, though, one that makes his heart stop.

It’s Harry, long legged and curly haired, two green dots for eyes and a wide black smile, clad in what he assumes is his swim uniform. Next to him is someone shorter, a haystack mess of straight brown hair and blue eyes, wearing familiar tiny shirt and pair of shorts. The drawings of him and Louis are holding hands, and there’s a rainbow over their heads.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until a gentle hand takes the picture from him, rubbing a soothing motion on his shoulder. Louis doesn’t say a word, just lets Harry sit and reconfigure everything he thought he knew, his world rearranged by Brendon, age five and three-quarters, from Surrey.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, taking Louis’ hand. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis replies, equally quiet. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Of course your coming out wasn’t easy, I know that.”

“I shouldn’t have been so flippant about something that could hurt your career.”

Louis squeezes Harry’s hand, and Harry squeezes back.

The drawing gets hung on the refrigerator back at the apartment.

◯◯◯◯◯

That night, Harry and Louis are the last two awake. Louis needs to go to bed, he’s got his events the next day and he can’t afford a bad night’s sleep, but he keeps blinking owlishly at Harry and Harry keeps blinking sleepily back and neither of them suggests waking Niall and Liam up and getting themselves to bed.

“Is it always this intense?” Harry asks, because he still can’t figure out what causes this weird mix of excitement and passion and carelessness and joy in him; is it the Olympics? Is it Rio? Or is it this boy, staring at him, lips quirked in a smile?

“Is what always this intense?” Louis repeats.

“This,” Harry says. “You know, all of this. The events and the ceremonies and…”

“And?”

Harry swallows hard. “And the relationships?”

Louis is quiet for a second, looking over at Niall and Liam, curled up like kittens on the sofa. “Sometimes,” he answers. “It’s the Olympics, we can’t be anything but intense. But it’s like this in the circuit sometimes, too.” He glances at Harry. “Worlds was always a big one for us in gymnastics. All that chalk and hairspray, tends to go to your head. Isn’t it like that in swimming?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know, I usually don’t… I just don’t.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “Ever?”

“Once.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks carefully. “What was she like?”

“He.”

“Oh.” A pause. “What was he like, then?”

“He was... sweet.”

“Oh,” Louis says again.

It’s quiet for a while after that.

◯◯◯◯◯

**_Meet the four best friends stealing all the attention at the Olympics_ **

_Michael Phelps won a record-breaking 13th individual gold medal this week in Rio. Did you notice? No, because you were too busy crying over these adorable best friends from the UK._

_Olympians Harry Styles, Liam Payne, Niall Horan, and Louis Tomlinson have taken Rio de Janeiro and social media by storm. Harry and Liam are swimmers and Louis is a gymnast, all from Great Britain, and Niall is a volleyball player from Ireland. Niall and Louis have been friends since the London Games in 2012, but about two weeks ago the two of them met Harry and Liam, and the four have become inseparable._

_The Fearsome Foursome (official friend group name TBD) were first spotted at Niall’s volleyball match last Sunday, where Liam, Harry, and Louis traded their Union Jacks for the green and orange of Ireland. Since then, every time one of the guys has an event to compete in, you can guarantee the other three will be right there with them._

_See the video of the bromantic celebration after Harry secured his spot in the 100m freestyle final here_ _, and tweet your thoughts @BuzzfeedUK!_

◯◯◯◯◯

_Sunday_

Harry doesn’t see Louis all day before his events, stuck at the training centre until Mark finally deems his practice times acceptable, and then hustling to the Arena just in time to throw himself into the seat between Liam and Niall as Louis’ name is announced.

He barely missed out on the vault final but he’s competing in the parallel bars and high bar today. Parallel bars could be a toss up, according to Louis—there’s a guy from the Ukraine who’s pretty good, but anyone else could medal as well, just depending on the mood of the judges or who makes whatever tiny mistakes.

That’s where Louis starts, a similar routine to the one he did days ago. Harry watches, recognizing a few of the things Louis had pointed out to him before; Louis grimaces when he has to shift his hands to get a better grip, knowing each little movement is a tenth point deduction, and he’s sure to keep his arms rigidly straight when he lifts himself into a handstand.

A double front with a half dismount, slight bounce on the landing, and Louis is done with the parallel bars. He doesn’t really look pleased or displeased either way, more like it was something to get out of the way so he could point his focus towards something more important.

Namely, the high bar.

Liam got the three of them seats right next to the high bar corner, so when Louis makes his way over and waves up at them, they’re close enough to shout encouragements just to make him laugh. There’s a lot more cheering than Harry expected, though, and he turns to look over his shoulder and finds an entire section of Olympians there to cheer Louis on—Novak and Jessica and Michael Phelps and Aliya and Simone and Bressie and so many more, guys from the swim teams and women from the volleyball teams and Americans and Brazilians and people from all over the world. Harry is flooded with happiness at the thought that Louis impacted all these people enough to make time to support him, who are proud to make fools of themselves just to make Louis smile.

It’ll be a while before Louis’ turn on the bar, so he keeps stretching to stay loose, shaking out his arms and legs periodically. Once, he makes pointed eye contact with Harry, turns his back to him, and bends into a low toe touch, shaking his bum completely unnecessarily until Harry’s face is bright red.

Photographers wander over to get pictures of Louis’ cheering section, especially the three in the front who’ve gotten so much attention lately, a single long flag draped across the shoulders of Niall, Liam, and Harry.

Final scores are announced for the parallel bars while Louis is waiting; he places fourth overall, barely missing the podium, but he doesn’t seem bothered. He’s in his own world, eyes determined, watching each man before him tackle the horizontal bar, noting every extra hop and bad landing and missed connection.

And then his name is called.

He’s the last to compete in this event, probably drawn that way on purpose; the two who got gold and silver medals ahead of him at the London Games have retired, and this is Louis’ redemption year. He’s got the highest start value but he’s carrying the biggest risk, tricky moves that can either launch him to victory or ruin his chances if they go badly.

Louis is calm, though, as he strips off his jacket and sweatpants, chalks his hands, his feet. The arena settles and every eye watches as he approaches the bar.

A trainer lifts Louis so he can reach the bar, and he immediately starts to swing. Harry is breathless, the whole arena is breathless; a handstand, swinging forward and throwing himself into a double front, hands steady when he grabs the bar again. A one armed full twist—a healy, he remembers Louis telling him—another few turns and then a Kolman, two backflips and a full before he catches the bar once more.

“Just the dismount,” Niall whispers. Harry grabs his hand, grabs Liam’s too, and they watch with bated breath.

Louis swings around the bar, looking as natural as breathing, winding himself up to full speed. On the third time around he lets go of the bar, throwing himself forward into thin air and flipping once, twice, three times.

Louis lands, feet together, and doesn’t bounce at all. For a moment, the arena is silent as Louis pauses, arms outstretched, and stares at his feet.

Then, so quickly Harry almost misses it, Louis grins.

The arena erupts as he stands up straight, wide smile for the judges and the cheering crowd. Harry shouts his exhilaration, his hands shaking, his cheeks aching with the force of his smile. Their whole sections is loud, celebrating Louis even without knowing his score, waving flags and banners and discarded jackets wildly. Louis runs and hugs his trainer, his coach, his other teammates, anyone who will sit still long enough to let him. He jogs over to another section of the stands and waves up at a woman who must be his mother, wiping tears off her face.

And then he’s back in front of the section full of his friends, who all get even louder as he draws near. He beams up at them, eyes crinkling so deeply they all but disappear, cheeks pink with excitement.

They quiet down a little as Louis turns to look at the screen that will display his score, letting the world know if he did it, if he got the gold.

A flash onscreen, a new set of letters and numbers, and Louis drops to his knees, his face in his hands. The sound of the crowd builds as the score is shown on the giant screen above their heads.

 _1 GBR       Louis TOMLINSON         15.544  
_ _2 JPN        Kohei UCHIMURA          15.533_

“Gold,” Harry whispers. “He got gold. HE GOT GOLD!”

Louis gets to his feet and races toward them; Harry, Liam, and Niall meet him halfway. They hang over the railing as Louis reaches up and grabs their hands, hauling himself halfway up the barrier between arena floor and the stands. Niall plants kisses all over his forehead and Liam beams through a sheen of tears.

Harry doesn’t know what to do; he and Louis stare at each other, Louis’ hands sweaty and chalky between his, his muscles shaking with exertion. They have to let go, Louis has to go get his medal, his _gold medal,_ but Harry doesn’t let go and Louis doesn’t let go and they stare, grinning, chests heaving.

“You did it,” Harry finally says.

Louis’ smile is blinding. “I did it.”

On the podium, gold around his neck and tears in his eyes, Louis blows a kiss at their section, and it hits Harry like a bullet from a sweetly fired gun.

◯◯◯◯◯

It takes ages for Louis to get out of the press room and the dozens of interviews he gives with his medal swinging and thumping against his chest. Harry watches all of them live, by himself in the living room of their apartment. Niall’s got an early match tomorrow and Liam’s first swim is finally coming up and so it’s just Harry awake when the apartment front door opens.

“Lou,” Harry says, getting slowly to his feet. “You’re back, do you wanna- what are you doing?”

Louis stands in the doorway, shoulders moving as he breathes heavily. He’s just a silhouette, wild hair and muscled shoulders standing out against the light in the hallway behind him. He drops his bag to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

“Harry,” Louis says. His voice is a deep rasp, and it sends a shiver down Harry’s spine.

“Louis,” Harry answers. “What’s going on?”

Louis doesn’t answer with words this time; instead, he steps more fully into the room, and a ray of Rio moonlight falls across him. His eyes are wild.

Three long strides across the room and he’s chest to chest with Harry, and Harry’s stumbling backwards, shocked into fight or flight, until his back hits the wall. Louis slots his thigh between Harry’s, and Harry’s knees go weak.

“Lou, what’re you-” Harry chokes out. Louis reaches up, winds his hand in Harry’s curls, and tugs sharply. Harry lets out a whimper and sinks a little lower, so that he and Louis are almost eye to eye.

“I got gold,” Louis says simply.

“I know, babe,” Harry says. “I’m so proud of you, but-”

Louis tugs again, and Harry’s veins feel like they’re on fire. “I’ve got gold around my neck, and now I need something else. Something tall, and pretty, with a mouth like fuckin’ sin.”

“Me?” Harry squeaks, heart hammering.

“By George, I think he’s got it,” Louis murmurs, leaning close. Harry can feel Louis’ warmth against his own lips, and wants this so badly he aches with it.

He wants, he wants, he wants, he _wants-_

“I can’t,” he gasps, wrenching himself back. “I can’t, God, Lou, I want to, but I can’t.”

Louis doesn’t seem bothered. “And why not?” he asks, trailing his other hand down Harry’s chest.

“I nearly lost a race the last time I was distracted by you,” Harry moans, swaying closer to Louis but knowing he can’t close the distance. “I can’t do this right now, I can’t.”

“You’re already distracted,” Louis says lowly. “I’m all you can think about. I’m the only thing in your head.”

Harry moans again, arousal beating a drumbeat in his ribs and hips and fingertips. “Please, Lou. Please, I can’t, please.” He knows he’s incoherent, and that if Louis pushes he’ll get what he wants, because Harry is weak to whatever Louis wants, always, especially when what Louis wants is _him_.

But Louis leans back, the fire in his eyes burned to embers, and says, “Okay.”

“O-okay?”

“Okay,” Louis nods. “You can have tonight. Visualise the water, or whatever it is you do. But tomorrow,” he says, eyes full of promise, thumbing the edge of his gold medal, “when we have a matching pair of these, you’re mine.”

Harry’s breath catches and Louis smirks, moonlight painting his features sharper. He steps back, letting Harry off the wall, and turns away.

A thought is beating against the inside of Harry’s skull, now that he can think about anything besides the way Louis looks when he wants him; it’s something he read in that godawful article a few days ago, something about copious sex that surely, _surely,_ Dan fucking Wootton wouldn’t know anything about. But.

“Lou,” Harry whispers, and Louis stops and turns back to him.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t,” Harry sighs, closes his eyes. “Don’t find anyone else tonight. Please.”

Louis looks at Harry for a long, long few seconds, then he nods. “Okay, Hazza. I won’t.”

Harry sighs a breath of relief, and, suddenly, he can’t wait for it to be tomorrow.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Monday_

The next day feels surreal. It’s everything Harry’s worked towards for the last six years of his life, the reason he’s spent more than half his life in the water and the other half wanting to jump back in. The call room is quiet, the eight men competing in the freestyle final stuck in their own heads, pacing little sections of the floor to stay loose. Harry doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t smile, doesn’t do anything; his heart is trying to start a conga line with his lungs, and Harry can’t breathe.

It’s a good kind of not breathing, though. Not panic, but excitement.

This time, when the volunteer says, “Ready,” Harry goes to the front of the line. Barely qualifying for the final means he won’t be in the good middle lanes, stuck instead in one of the outside lanes. It’s all the same water, though, and since he knew that’s where he’d be for the real race, it’s where he’s spent the last day training, getting used to swimming with the wall on one side.

“Representing Great Britain, Harry Styles!” says the announcer, and Harry steps out into the arena. He waves but keeps his head down, trying hard not to look up at the red and navy blue section chanting his name, where he knows his friends invited his mum and sister to stand with them, combining into the ultimate Styles Fanzone.

Harry goes to the block, makes sure it’s steady, takes off his headphones. The other swimmers are announced one by one but he doesn’t spare them a glance, slowly sliding off his jacket, revealing his bare chest to the cool air. Shoes and sweatpants off next, shaking out his limbs to keep his muscles loose.

Hair up in a bun, one swim cap on, goggles in place (secure this time), second cap on.

The whistle blows.

This time, Harry takes a split second to look up in the stands. Liam, Niall, Louis, Gemma, and his mum are at the railing, the five of them holding hands. His mum looks on the verge of tears already, and Louis’ bottom lip is red like it gets when he worries at it with his teeth.

Behind the five of them are the majority of Louis’ cheering section from the day before, and Harry’s breath catches at all the familiar faces; Michael Phelps is there, no races for him tonight, Tom Daley shooting Harry a thumbs up, Novak Djokovic and Justin Rose and Andy Murray and Simone and Aliya and the table tennis guy they partied with the first night.  

The second whistle blows, and Harry steps onto the block. He stretches his back, and the tension in his spine bleeds out. He’s ready; his muscles coil as he waits for the signal, his breathing evens out.

He stills.

“Take your mark.”

He breathes.

_BEEP._

He jumps.

Harry’s hands cut the water like blades, and he’s never felt more in control of the way he moves; stroke stroke breathe, stroke stroke breathe. His pulse pounds in his ears and he uses it as a metronome, timing his pace to match.

Stroke stroke breathe and his hand brushes the first wall; he turns, winds up, and kicks off hard, propelling himself forward.

At the twenty-five metre mark, he looks to his left; it’s harder to judge from here instead of the middle of the pool, but he doesn’t see much splashing, like he’s caught behind everyone else. He summons up his strength and kicks harder, strokes faster.

It's almost a surprise when his hand touches the wall, but he gets over it quickly enough and pops out of the water, breathing heavily. He has no idea what to expect regarding his time, no idea why his stomach is swarming with butterflies like they took up room in his intestines because they thought he had a chance at a medal. There’s no _way_ he made the podium, not with his weak starting position, but maybe he beat his personal best, maybe he kept his promise to himself to try his very hardest and he can be proud of the result no matter what.

He pulls off his caps and goggles, tosses them aside, shakes his hair out of its bun but doesn’t duck underwater yet; he can’t miss this result. All eight men in the pool are staring down at the screen on the other end, waiting for it to flash with the final times.

 _Please,_ Harry thinks, and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. Just _please._

The screen flashes, and Harry pulls himself up out of the water so he can see.

 _1 AUS       Kyle CHALMERS             47.58_  
_2 GBR       Harry STYLES                 47.63  
3 BGM      Pieter TIMMERS              47.80_

The Jamaican swimmer on Harry’s left is shaking his hand before the truth sets in, and then Harry feels his mouth fall open, fill with chlorine water.

Second place.

That-that’s his name.

 _Second place_.

He medalled.

Silver medal, second place means silver.

Holy shit. Holy _shit_.

He MEDALLED.

_HE MEDALLED!_

Harry clambers out of the pool and roars, throwing his head back and letting loose. The Australian who beat him comes stumbling over like he’s the only person who understands how Harry feels right now, and they grapple into an awkward, wet hug. Harry breaks away from Chalmers and spins to look at his supporting section.

They’re all on their feet, every one of them, these Olympians who can do things Harry can’t even imagine, they’re all cheering for him. And in the very front is his mum, eyes red with tears, she and Gemma clutching each other and sobbing. Liam has wrapped himself into a group hug with Niall, Bressie, and Andy Murray, all of them whooping at the tops of their lungs.

And Louis. Harry’s lightning strike boy, his light at the end of the tunnel. Louis’ eyes are bright and his hands are pressed to his mouth and Harry looks at him, ignoring the poor volunteer trying to shuffle him to the locker room. Harry looks at him across an Olympic arena and Louis looks back and they smile. They smile, and Harry, without second guessing, without worrying about articles in the papers or the dozens of cameras pointed his way or the ugliest word in the world, _distractions,_ Harry mouths, _I love you._

And Louis, lightning strike, gilded smile, perfect ten Louis, smiles tearily back and mouths, _I love you too._

◯◯◯◯◯

Inside the locker room, Harry’s phone won’t stop buzzing. They won’t do the medal ceremony until after the next races finish, five heats for the 200m breaststroke, so Harry’s got time. He slips out of his wet jammers and shimmies into his Team GB sweats and jacket, ruffling his curls to dry them. When he looks presentable enough for the history books, Harry picks up his phone and dials.

“Harry?” Louis asks, the noise of the crowd outside in the arena drowning him out a little.

“I did it,” Harry says breathlessly, and Louis laughs.

“You did it, babe. You won.”

“I got silver, but that’s close enough, holy _shit.”_

Louis’ laughter is beautiful against Harry’s ear, and Harry smiles as they hang up. He’s led dazedly back to the call room, Chalmers and the Belgian guy who got bronze already there waiting. They’re led out to stand behind the podium, and Harry wonders what could top this feeling.

He gets his silver around his neck and he looks up, watches his cheering section devolve into chaos again, catches Louis shooting him a thumbs up across the arena, and thinks, _oh, okay._

Harry lets his head tip back and he closes his eyes, the sounds of Rio and the heavy weight of his medal keeping him grounded just when he felt light enough to fly.

◯◯◯◯◯

_Tuesday_

_Louis: Apartment’s empty. Come home. Bring your medal._

The closing of the door sounds final when it shuts behind Harry, the apartment silent in front of him. Niall and Bressie are having a press day and Liam’s at the pool, ramping up his training for his race in two days, and the only light on in the apartment comes from under Louis’ door.

Harry knocks once, and lets himself in.

“You made it,” Louis says, voice low. He’s running his thumb around the edge of his own medal, the golden complement to Harry’s silver, but his eyes are stuck to Harry.

“Course I did.” He’d been too tired after the celebrations last night to do anything more than collapse into bed, but now he’s awake, and he’s rested, and Louis has a promise to keep.

Louis takes a step forward, toes perfectly pointed, and he’s right in Harry’s space. He traces his thumb along the edge of Harry’s jaw, then cups his cheek.

Their first brush of lips is soft; the second, not so much. Louis takes Harry apart in seconds, quicksilver tongue and tiny noises, hands wrapping themselves in Harry’s jacket and curls.

“Off,” he demands, shoving at Harry’s clothing. Harry strips quickly, a skill borne of years of practice, sets his medal next to Louis’, and stands completely naked in front of him, awaiting further instruction. He gets it a moment later: “On the bed.”

Harry scrambles to comply as Louis divests himself of his leggings and loose vest, straddling Harry’s waist. They fall into each other again immediately, lips and teeth and tongues, Harry groaning in harmony with Louis’ sweet, pleased sounds.

“Jesus,” Harry breathes when they separate for air.

“Olympic gold medalist,” Louis corrects with a grin.

He leans down and runs his tongue around Harry’s nipple, then the other, and Harry throws his head back at the pulse of heat that sends ricocheting through him. He squirms, over-sensitive, but a single tap of Louis’ fingers to his chest makes him still.

“Mmm, you like to follow orders, do you?” Louis breathes, eyes hooded but bright.

Harry’s breath catches. “A little, yeah.”

Louis hums again. “Good.” He kisses the underside of Harry’s jaw, worrying the skin and leaving a mark. Harry whimpers but doesn’t move, the rush in his bloodstream intensifying knowing he’s doing what Louis asked.

Louis notices, of course.

“Oh, you are good, aren’t you?” he murmurs, and smiles filthily when Harry’s cock twitches. “And a praise kink too? My, my.”

Harry bucks the tiniest bit when Louis kisses a path down to his stomach, whispering half-formed devotions into Harry’s skin. He bites at Harry’s hipbones, a sharp sting that makes Harry’s leg kick and his breath stutter, but otherwise he stays in one place. Louis crawls backward so that he’s even with Harry’s cock, which is heavy and needy and jumping with each beat of Harry’s pulse.

Louis wraps his lips around the tip, and Harry shouts.

Hot heat and tight lips, soft suction and sweet noises of pleasure, like Louis is enjoying sucking Harry off even more than Harry is. It’s too much, it’s been far too long and Louis is much too good and Harry’s not ready for it to be over already, likes the buildup almost as much as the fall. He taps at Louis’ shoulder and moans, “Lou, _fuck.”_

Louis pulls off, licking his lips, and Harry actually has to look away and think of cold water to keep himself from spilling just like that. Louis gives him a moment to calm down, moving off of Harry’s lap. He’s rummaging through his things in the bedside table, and Harry jumps when a tube is dropped onto his chest. He looks up and Louis is standing over him, holding gold and silver medals.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks hazily.

Instead of answering, Louis smiles. “If you want to stop, say pommel horse.”

“What?” Harry asks, and then Louis takes his silver medal and loops it around the bedpost, securing the fabric in a knot around Harry’s wrist. Harry’s still a little fuzzy from the orgasm still tingling and begging for release at the bottom of his spine, but when he gets it, his hips jump off the mattress.

Louis is using their medals to _tie him to the bed_.

“Holy shit,” he whines, legs sliding across the sheets, suddenly desperate to be touched. “Lou, oh my god, please, holy _shit.”_

Louis leans over and kisses Harry again, not giving Harry an opportunity to do anything besides take it; it’s clear, now, that any sense of upper hand Harry might have had was all an illusion. Harry is Louis’, completely and totally.

Somehow, that thought makes Harry burn even hotter.

Louis crawls back onto the bed by Harry’s knees and grabs him by the hips. He slides Harry down so that his arms are pulled taut, stretched out towards the upper corners of the bed and held securely by the the blue and green fabric of their medal straps. Harry moans, overwhelmed in the best possible way.

The click of the lube bottle lid is loud between them, the touch of Louis’ first finger cold. Harry clenches reflexively but Louis is insistent, leaning down and whispering a stream of praise in Harry’s ear: “So good for me, darling, so wonderful. Taking me so well, you’re so strong, so good. The very best.”

Louis slips in another finger without Harry even noticing, touching near his prostate but not directly on it, just enough to tease. Harry can feel himself unwinding, his every breath tied to Louis, his very self dependent on Louis and the need for him to keep his fingers moving right _there._  

“One more,” Louis murmurs, scraping lightly at Harry’s nipple with his teeth and adding a third finger. His hair’s a mess from his own hands, a disheveled Michaelangelo’s David come to life, pink lips sweet when he steals another kiss.

“Please,” Harry mumbles when his skin starts to feel too tight, his head a little dizzy. He knows he’s breathing but he still feels like he’s drowning, colours soft and muted except for Louis, who’s in technicolour.

Louis slides on a condom and slicks himself, then leans over Harry so that he’s nudging at Harry’s entrance. As he pushes in, Harry melts, melding his cells and his self around Louis, rearranging his atoms so that Louis inside him has irrevocably changed everything.

“Gorgeous,” Louis murmurs. Harry wants to touch; forgets, for a second, that he can’t, that their medals are keeping him in one place. Strung up and helpless.

Harry moans again, his loudest yet.

“Yeah, baby,” Louis says, coiling his hips and thrusting, building a slow rhythm. “Let me hear you.”

Harry couldn’t stop the noises spilling out if he tried. Louis takes them to heart, fucking Harry so hard the bed shakes, the headboard banging against the wall.

“Fuck,” Harry gasps as Louis hits his prostate dead on. He feels his biceps burn as he pulls uselessly on the medals, the bed creaking as Louis pounds into him.

The heat builds at the base of Harry’s spine again, ready to spill over and douse him in champagne bubbles mixed with glitter and adrenaline and pulsing, hot pleasure. Harry yanks on the medals again and hears the bed creak with it, veins popping in his forearms.

Louis hooks an arm under Harry’s legs and moves them to rest on his shoulders, lifting Harry’s hips and back entirely off the bed. The change in angle makes Harry scream, toes clenching and eyes rolling as the pressure in his stomach builds and compounds, builds and compounds-

“Come on, beautiful,” Louis grits out, gravel and smoke and wildfire, “let me see you come.”

Harry implodes, explodes, shatters into pieces and reforges himself; pleasure crests like waves again and again and his arms burn even hotter, the muscles pleasantly achey. He clutches at Louis’ shoulders, hands slippery with sweat and a little numb.

“Holy shit, holy fuck, that was so fucking hot,” Louis is moaning, and Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about but he’s glad it worked, Louis thrusting two more times and then collapsing, sweaty skin sticking to Harry’s.

They lie there in silence for a moment, the echoes of their cries fading out, and then Harry moves his hand and something heavy tries to follow the movement; he looks down, and sees his hands still tied to their medals, but no longer strapped to the bed. He looks up, a little surprised to see the damage: the gold medal around his right wrist seems to have pulled through the cheap wood of the bedpost like a knife cutting through butter, and the silver medal around his left wrist must have slipped upward, so that he was yanking against the top part of that bedpost, making it easier to crack in the middle and angle diagonally so the medal strap could slip off.

Louis giggles tiredly against his chest. “You should be some sort of athlete with that strength.”

It’s not that funny but Harry still collapses into laughter with him, shoulders shaking.

It takes a moment for them to calm down, then Louis helps untie the medals from around Harry’s wrists and sets them aside. They curl up together, ignoring the fact that their apartment still has no air conditioner, and listen to each other breathe.

“Do you think,” Harry asks slowly after a moment, “that it’s possible to fall in love with someone after just two weeks?”

Louis hums, and traces a love bite he’d left on Harry’s chest. “Before you? No, I didn’t think so. But now?” He looks up at Harry, grins a golden smile. “I think a lot crazier things have happened in shorter amounts of time.”

◯◯◯◯◯

_Friday_

At Liam’s preliminary swim a few days later, photographers get the world exclusive first pictures proving the rumours true: Olympic medallists Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson are in a romantic relationship. Immediately, gossip rags set their presses on fire with the speed they rush to publish the news: Styles and Tomlinson, two of the biggest winners of Team GB, seen walking hand in hand while chatting with mutual friend Niall Horan. There’s more, too, pictures of Harry with his arm around Louis’ shoulders, Louis’ hand tucked into Harry’s back pocket, Harry kissing Louis’ forehead.

When Liam places first in his heat, Harry has the honour of flipping off the cameras as he leans down to kiss Louis in celebration.

“What about your sponsors?” Louis asks in a whisper, though his cheeks are pink and his eyes are crinkled.

“Fuck the sponsors,” Harry whispers back. “I’ve got you, that’s the most important thing.”

“And a silver medal,” Louis reminds him, grinning.

“That too,” Harry says.

They kiss again, and Liam only complains a little that they stole his thunder.

◯◯◯◯◯

_2020_

At the 2020 Tokyo Games, a single photographer gets a shot that will go down in Olympics history.

Harry Styles, four-time medal winning swimmer from Great Britain, is led onto the arena floor while his boyfriend, gymnast Louis Tomlinson, steps up to accept his second gold medal in a row for the horizontal bar event. Styles is hidden as the British anthem plays, not stepping forward fully until Tomlinson dismounts from the podium. The photographer notices, and takes a photo right before one of the most iconic moments in modern Olympics history.

In the photo, Styles has a black velvet box in hand, and is rubbing his thumb nervously over it just as he’s beginning to sink to one knee. Tomlinson, new gold medal around his neck, has noticed, and is wide-eyed in disbelief.

(Needless to say, Tomlinson said yes.)

(In 2024, he competes with a specially made silicone band on his finger, barely visible through all the chalk on his hands, a matching gold ring on Styles’ finger as he cheers his husband on from the stands.)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/), feel free to come yell at me for mistreating fictional olympic medals
> 
> EDIT: i changed the rings in the tokyo, so gymnast louis won't hurt himself on the bar anymore with a real ring. thanks for looking out, everyone. :) 
> 
> [twopoppies has drawn some BEAUTIFUL art of the medals scene](https://twopoppies.tumblr.com/post/148914810371/whatre-you-doing-harry-asks-hazily-instead-of), thank you so much!


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